Infamous
by madluvs
Summary: A retelling of the Mad Love story, only with lights, cameras and plentiful action! Revenge transforms into an unlikely romance when up-and-coming rising star Harleen Quinzel gets more attention than she bargained for, having accidentally stolen the Joker's limelight in Gotham City. Part One of the Infamy Series (work-in-progress) a slow burn romantic comedy.
1. Chapter 1: Rehearsal

A small and pleasant smile upon a small and pleasant face beamed up at Joker in black and white brilliance. Bedazzling the inky front page of the Gotham Gazette were two big bright eyes, a bob of blonde, pale skin spattered with freckles – or was that his coffee?

 **GOTHAM'S OWN RISING STAR: HARLEEN QUINZEL**

A tidy font beneath the photo, pulled so taut it was near enough to tearing. His jaw tightened and Joker swallowed hard on the jealousy that writhed deep within the pit of his stomach, and with white-knuckled force, he slammed the paper down upon the bar, rattling the glasses, and rattling his men.

"What. Is. THIS?!"

Apparently the citizens of Gotham had exceedingly short memories – since it had been just yesterday Joker had had Batman speeding down the narrow roads at the docklands, in chase of some serious cash Joker had rinsed from the bank only twenty minutes prior. He'd had seven police vehicles on the go, sirens blaring, one bulking batmobile – and one Bat. He'd lost three of his own men in arrests, shot two officers, and had escaped only narrowly himself. And yet – he'd flipped back to front, front to back, of the newspaper more than once and not a mention in sight of his showmanship.

"What's what, boss?"

Joker almost broke his own finger forcing it into the face of this rising star. HA! "This," he seethed. Again, hammering his finger into the paper with some ferociousness, his eyes narrowed at the five bewildered faces blinking back at him through the dusty dark.

"Oh, there's a new show comin' to town, some musical they been promotin' it all month!"

Joker had admittedly forgotten the name of the man speaking. A nameless goon, far too animated and excitable in his gestures for Joker's liking during this moment of crisis–

"My gal's been naggin' me to get tickets for ages… but since we're still waiting to be paid and all–"

There was a pause, a cough. Joker stared, expressionless as he tried to quell his internal rage.

"You wanna see it, J? Tomorrow night is opening night!"

"Of course I don't want to fucking see it!"

They each flinched at him, and at the spittle that flew from Joker's mouth in fury. He compulsively fisted the front cover until he tore through the face of this doe-eyed dunce, Harleen Quinzel.

"Where is my mention?!" Joker seethed.

There was a sudden murmur of understanding amongst the men before him, a few subtle glances exchanged, and a chorus of praise and encouragement promptly proceeded on cue.

"They only care 'cause it's new boss–" piped up one, waggling a fifth scotch and lacking conviction.

"The robbery probably features first on the website… probably, I can get it up on my phone if you wanna–" another rummaged through his loose jeans in order to find it.

"Maybe they storin' up your stories for one big scoop–" Not how a newspaper works – where the fuck did he find these guys?

"They'll all have forgotten all about it in a week, you'll see, boss, you'll see–"

"They just ain't fully comprehendin' the poetry in the work you put out, boss."

The ink had blackened Joker's knuckles, and Gotham's newest doll-faced, dull distraction grinned up at him from the bar, smug and taunting. The only remnant of the image left. Eyeless, faceless, it lacked the previous sweetness and warmth, the photo no more now than a smudgy ruined grimace. A temporary diversion, satiating a famously fickle audience. So they'd chosen this, over their clown prince? So be it. Joker's teeth squeaked as they ground together, and he lingered in thought.

"When is opening night, did you say?" He asked quietly, amongst their continuous supportive chatter.

"Tomorrow night, boss! It's got some glowin' reviews so all they've been sayin'–"

Joker's steely expression cut their enthusiasm dead. "I'll need a car, two men, nice suit– do you really need to be writin' that down?!" His hands flitted idly to his temples in agitation, though they were twitching to be around somebody's neck. All in due time.

"Get it done," he snarled, tossing the paper and scattering his lackeys from their drinking booth. "And get those tickets boys – we're seein' that show!"

* * *

"Alright, take a break!–"

Harleen breathed a heavy sigh of relief, centre stage and skin glistening under the furious spotlights. Her arms outstretched and aching as she held the freeze-frame concluding their final dance number. The cast surrounding her began to break out from the tableau and down towards the stands, reaching out for bottles of water and a seeking a moment of rest. Panting, Harleen dropped her jazz hands, about to follow suit –

"Not you, Quinzel, you stay right there."

Harleen's breath hitched in her chest, and she squinted out towards the empty seats of the theatre. A curious stillness fell upon the cast and crew at the sharp tone of the director, and though she couldn't see their expressions through the brightness, could feel all their eager eyes upon her. It wasn't with the glowing admiration she had always imagined it would be.

"Yes?"

Harleen teetered on stumbling upright. She was drained, anxious. They had been rehearsing their numbers non-stop for weeks. She had been dancing, tapping and singing herself to exhaustion in order to beat the competition at every turn.

"Your footwork, once again, was too clumsy and too slow," piped the choreographer from somewhere beyond the white glow of the stage lights. "Riley, get up there, and from the top, please."

Harleen's heart sank, and her signature jovial expression dropped along with it. She stood, highlighted in her embarrassment, as Peyton Riley made her way up the steps to join her.

Peyton Riley wasn't all that dissimilar to Harleen, except in all the ways considered important. She was flawless, beautiful, living out of her daddy's fat wallet, and pursuing her hobby in a casual and careless manner. It didn't seem to matter anymore that Harleen had endured nights of repetitive, boring fucking from the director, under the assumption this had solidified her status within their artistic company. It didn't matter that Harleen had approached her interview, broke but determined, willing to do anything to claim the illustrious main part. It didn't matter because Riley was always just a single misstep behind her, as Harleen's understudy, her replica with many improvements.

Harleen forced a wide smile, struggling to block out the avalanche of disappointment and humiliation. It was opening night tomorrow night, and Riley was at her heels, Harleen's shadow after a spotlight of it's own. Over my dead body. And she stood to watch Peyton take her stage, tap her number with an effortlessly grace.

"Beautiful, Riley, thank you."

Her cheeks burned with anger – but Harleen's smile remained steadfast all the while.

"We need to see a lot more of that tomorrow night Quinzel, if you really want to make it big in this city," though she couldn't see the director's face, Harleen could hear the entertainment in his voice, and the wave of awkward chuckling that followed through the ensemble.

"Of course," Harleen responded, as lightly as she could though her veins were fire and her mouth dry. "That really was somethin' Riley," she offered a tiny, rather manic applause. "Bravo."

Riley gave a brief and casual "thanks–" before heading back out towards the crew in the auditorium, and Harleen watched with loathing as Riley perched herself close the director, much closer than was necessary. It wasn't due to the lights, that Riley was glowing.

"Tomorrow night is the night ladies and gentleman, get as much rest as you can, and I'll see you all at ten for full dress rehearsal. Thank you very much, and goodnight."

And Harleen watched, stunned, as Peyton got ready to leave, chatting with merriment alongside with the director and senior crew.

Harleen stormed backstage and threw herself into the dressing room, shunting all of her pearls, jewellery and make-up onto the floor. Despite every attempt not to, a small and ugly cry escaped. And she screamed at her reflection beyond the orange-white bulbs.

"FUCK!"

She tore at her glittering costume and heard a seam, somewhere, tearing. But Harleen no longer cared. She scrubbed with anger at her face, until her cheeks and lips were sore from it. And cried loudly, with frustration at her other self inside the mirror. She was a sad and sorry state to behold. I'll show them. I'll show them **all** what Harleen Quinzel can **do.** And with that, she grabbed for her things with a new sense of purpose, left through the back entrance and out into the cold night.

* * *

 **A/N** : This started as a practice piece to get me back into writing (since I haven't written anything _in forever_!) but has turned quickly into a labour of love. For those of you even having read this first chapter, thank you - I hope to keep you entertained in the adventure to come. Please feel free to let me know what you love, and also what you _don't_. This is, after all, for practice and enjoyment, and I hope that you do indeed enjoy it. Thanks again, and I hope to hear from any avid Jarley readers throughout this crazy and chaotic journey - much love, L x


	2. Chapter 2: Dressed to Kill

Joker was emptying and applying the very last of a tan foundation as they pulled up towards their chosen destination of the evening. The theatre. Caking it on until the alabaster white of his skin was no longer visible, Joker refused to leave the car until satisfied with the visage in front of him. "I look fuckin' ridiculous," he hissed, flipping the sun visor mirror, thoroughly unhappy with his common, far too regular Joe, disguise. His features, though still prominently angular, were plain, boring – even ugly – without the stark white, black eyes and vivid reds. "I can't go in like this–"

"I think ya' look pretty handsome if ya' ask me, boss," spoke Eric (previously: nameless goon) who smiled at Joker warmly from behind the wheel.

"Shut up."

Ugh! He was in far too good a mood. Ever since Joker had handed both him and his other lackey, Claus, a ticket to this damned production, Eric had been nothing but full of enthusiasm and gratitude. Joker wasn't feeling it, not even at all. Claus and Eric were lucky that they didn't need stupid disguises like this one, since they were already stupid. Already ugly, and to top it all off, complete nobodies.

He rummaged around in the glove compartment to find the final piece of his costume. To hide the last semblance of his identity with a thick, black wig, which Joker adjusted carefully, tucking back every strand of vibrant green with careful consideration. He checked himself over one last time, before exiting the car and slamming the door in a fit. They hadn't even got inside the venue, and yet his blood was already boiling.

All three men got out of the car, wearing matching black suits, expensive, but altogether unassuming. Tonight was opening night, and as much as Joker liked to make a statement, he needed to take the subtle approach in order to reach that grand finale.

"I look ready for a' open casket not a night on the town," Joker snapped. And with his plain suit and thick layer of make-up, he wasn't entirely wrong about that.

"Ya' know what they say J, you put the fun inta' tha funeral."

Old joke. Bad joke.

"Remind me, why did I bring you again?" Because I regret it.

"Cause a' this–"

Eric waddled around to the back end of the car (an expensive ride, but also boring and unassuming) opening the trunk to unveil three assorted leather cases, each shaped to hold a different musical instrument. Claus' a large double-bass, Eric's a clarinet, and finally a violin case for Joker which disguised, as much as he himself was, a prepped and loaded Thompson machine gun.

At last, Joker cracked a smile.

"That's more like it!" Joker squeezed their shoulders as they crowded around their toys, each in turn taking their instrument of choice. "We'll be making music tonight boys."

The hulking men either side of Joker chuckled, well prepared for a night of lights, cameras, most certainly, action. With their cases in tow, a spring in their step, Joker and his two acquaintances made their way towards the stage entrance, avoiding the eager, queuing public.

A bald, thoroughly disgruntled doorman, raised a brow at the three of them as they approached. Two tired eyes flitted to the cases in their hands, to their outfits, to settle on Joker's heavily applied face. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sure you can," Joker exclaimed, tapping on his "violin" and smiling widely. "We're part of the band and we're running pretty late."

"Sure you are. Show me your passes."

"Passes?" – Eric went to reach for his ticket from the inner pocket of his jacket – IDIOT! – but Joker was faster and elbowed him hard in the ribs, taking the wind right out of him.

"I must've left them back at the hotel, silly me," Joker feigned a loud and aggravated laugh above the coughing and spluttering of his lackey.

"No pass, no entry."

"Don't be ridiculous – we've gotta show to play! What will they do without us?"

The guard extended a finger and with each word, prodded at Joker's chest roughly. "No. Pass. No. Entry."

Claus was upon the doorman in a blink. For a giant, muscular specimen, he moved with swift grace, crushing and dragging the bald man's head against the wall. His whole hand swallowed the skull of the doorman, as he thrust it, over and over, into the rough brickwork behind. Upon letting go, the body slumped into a bloodied pile at their feet. He had never been a man of many words, but a man of many maneuvers. Touching the boss was a cardinal sin, and Claus was more than happy to rid him of those.

"Got anything for a headache?" Joker scoffed at the lifeless bundle, as they each, in turn, stepped over the doorman and into the building.

The place was alight with activities, people rushing to and from, barking orders, running costumes, repeating lines, that Joker and his men were able to pass through completely unnoticed. Although it was nesasary in order to get this job done, Joker didn't like the way that he blended in amongst them. He was a lion stalking the sheep, and they were all too distracted to notice. Not for long.

They didn't hang backstage, and moved quickly onward. Though he'd looked for her, Joker hadn't yet spotted the current thorn in his side, Harleen Quinzel. Just as well since he wanted to wait for that opportune moment. The moment that would compliment her star-quality (who was he kidding?! She needed all the help she could get!) and give it that extra pizzazz.

They managed to sift their way through to the proscenium. Joker being the only sleight one of the three, Claus the goliath that he was, and Eric the rotund, barrel chested man, drew far more attention than was needed, just getting through the crowds and to their seats. Joker was thankful when they finally made it up to their own private gallery above, with a fantastic view of both the stage and the audience below.

Soon all word would once again be of Joker, their clown prince, and no more of dainty, dancing Miss Quinzel. Just as it should be in **his** city.

* * *

Dancers were stretching and actors were at their lines, flipping frantically through worn scripts and warming up. Crew members were hurriedly dragging sets, stage, dresses and props, all blurring through the last minutes before curtains opened. Harleen watched it from the wings, sipping sweet honey and lemon, an unusually quiet bundle of nerves amidst the chaos.

She was anxious, but excited – taking a moment of calm for herself before the start of the show. She could feel it in her bones, that she was standing on the precipice. That tonight, she was going to fire off and into the stars. Harleen was going to be transformed before a real, live audience, that would love and adore her. She was sure of it. And Harleen could sense the change out there, from the low buzz of the crowd beyond the curtain. She was going to thrill the citizens of Gotham, from here on out – until her name was up in lights brighter than the batsignal.

"Harleen–"

A familiar and unwelcome voice broke her train of thought, and Harleen was bought back to the realm of reality by Peyton Riley who stood accompanied by an auburn haired gentleman, his features as handsome as Riley's were beautiful.

"Hey?"

"I just wanted to introduce you to my fiancé before we start," Peyton smiled, "he's looking forward to the show, I thought it only right that I'd bring him to see the star."

Harleen felt her cheeks flush despite herself, struggling to keep a hold of her composure. It didn't matter that it was spoken with a bitterness, the flattery remained the same.

Wait – fiancé? Harleen was honestly expecting Peyton to be latched onto the arm of the director and yet – it wasn't really surprising to think Peyton was not only rich, talented, gorgeous, she was also engaged to be married to a wealthy, chiselled man. Her cheeks weren't hot because of flattery now.

"Thomas Elliot," he jutted out a stiff hand towards her and they barely touched before breaking apart.

"Harleen… Nice ta' meet ya'."

He didn't even pretend to be Interested. "I'm here front row with a friend," he spoke matter-of-factly. "Peyton has been such a support to me the last couple of months, I can only return the favour tonight."

Riley aww'd and coo'd at his arm and Harleen's stomach twisted. She forced her widest smile none-the-less, "well ain't that somethin'."

"I'm sure she'll be just as much support for you in the months ahead."

There was nothing about Riley that spelt support for Harleen. She was a threat, acting as a friend. Peyton as her understudy was of little to no comfort at all.

"FIVE MINUTES GUYS–"

A crew member, covered head to toe in wires and walkie-talkies, ran across the stage, alerting all those who still lingered that show was soon to start. Harleen was thankful for the abrupt break to an awkward encounter, more determined than ever to cement herself as Gotham's most beloved before Riley got even a sniff of a chance at what was destined for her and her alone.

"You better get to your seat," Peyton purred at her man, "you wouldn't want to leave Bruce on his own down there, who knows what company he'll drag in."

"You're right," Elliot chuckled (even his laugh sounded callous and cold) "a typical Wayne, through and through."

And they embraced, a superficial, stagnant expression before parting ways. Harleen watched with an odd fascination as Thomas Elliot flitted off-stage and out of sight. To go sit alongside Bruce Wayne of all people. How the other half live, huh?

She didn't get much time to think about that, as more of the cast began to position themselves on stage. Though nerves coursed through her veins, Harleen was ready. Peyton could shake her, but couldn't shake the feeling that lingered in her soul. This was her time, and nothing was going to get in her way.

Peyton rushed to position, and Harleen too found her spot. The backdrop was pushed centre, and the ensemble found their place for the opening sequence. The music struck up first, bold and brilliant, big band extravaganza, and as the curtains opened, they were all blinded by the lights.

The audience was enthralled throughout, as each dance number, each song, was more captivating than the last. Harleen stole the cold hearts of the Gothamite crowd, with her animated tap-dancing, and her soft, sweet voice. She had 'em hooked. Her sequinned costumes had her lit up like a diamond, and she owned the stage as she had never done before. Like she'd been made for it.


	3. Chapter 3: Standing Ovation

There were a few brief moments where Joker's anger subsided just long enough for him to appreciate the glitz and glamour of the production. That is, until the applause after each number would shake the stands, and Joker was once again reminded of his reason for attending. Every time he saw her face aglow with pride at the admiration of the crowd, he remembered. And thin white fingers twitched around the handle of his violin case.

Each smile she flashed had his belly tightening, and Joker watched her with such an unbreakable focus it felt as though the performance was solely for him. When the spotlight was on her, and the auditorium was dark, she was dancing and singing only for him.

And she was ablaze on the stage, glittering like a fiery angel atop a christmas tree of electric lights. The audience swooned for her, cheered for her and cried tears for her, as she paraded around, primed by their pleasure. And though he loathed to admit it, he could not keep his eyes off of her.

And Joker wondered if she'd have that same sparkle in her eyes, that same smile on her face, with his hands about her throat and squeezing on her windpipe. He wondered if she'd burn so bright she'd become cinder beneath him. If she'd still look as immaculate and invirogated after he was done with her. Joker knew that she would not, for she was as false as the role that she was playing, and that Harleen Quinzel was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

The final song-and-dance was closing down the show, and pulling himself from his hypnosis, Joker nodded to his goons either side. It was time. They hurried to crack open their cases to retrieve their guns, perched up on the balcony and waiting. Joker hoisted up the Tommy, ready and willing.

They waited, and waited. Waited for the show to end and the curtain to drop, waited for the flowers to fall from the stands. And waited with anticipation as the cast came out in turn to bow, curtsey and drink in the applause. It seemed like forever for Joker, who only wanted Harleen Quinzel. And finally – she appeared to him, holding a bouquet almost as big as she was, skin flushed with pink, round eyes wet with happy tears.

The audience erupted for her, and Joker stood on impulse to get a better view – no, aim. Blood ran hot in his veins as she drank in their attention, their love for her. His eyes stung the longer he stared at her. His lips curling in disgust.

"Now–" he ordered hoarsely, and Eric fired a single shot into the air from his rifle.

The crowd was stunned into immediate silence and though Joker's ears rang with the echo of cheers, he had killed the celebration dead. Eyes from all across the auditorium were snapped from Harleen and over to the three of them hanging over the gallery.

"HEY!" Joker yelled, and took great pleasure in watching her turn to face him, expression no longer tearfully ecstatic, but etched in confusion and fear.

"Who is that?" Joker heard from the public below, and was quickly reminded of his disguise. He drew a sleeve roughly across his face in order to remove the make-up. It was harder than it looked.

"I don't know!" yelled another audience member.

Tough crowd. "For fucks sake!" Joker dragged a hand across his face again, having removed even more of the residue to the chalky white beneath, and then tore away at his wig, unveiling the signature green of his own hair.

It was as though the entire theatre took a singular breath at once, as somebody screamed, "it's the Joker!"

Finally!

Harleen's mouth dropped, and Joker laughed manically at her stunned expression. "Loved the show Harls!" he yelled across at her, loving more the terror written plainly on her face, "why don't I give you that STANDIN' OVATION?!" and he slammed his finger on the trigger raining bullets on the the people below.

 **RATATATATATA** **ATATATATATATATAKAKAKAKAKAKAKAK!**

Harleen stood frozen, horrified, as bullets littered her people and shredded them up like paper. They were running, screaming, flailing for the exits. Clambering the stage, clogging up doors, and crawling beneath the chairs. Seats had been torn to foam by slugs, and torsos and limbs to pulp. She swayed on her feet at the sights and sounds, unable to comprehend the rhyme or reason for this atrocity before her. Her bouquet fell from her hands to scatter flowers across bodies, her arms suddenly limp and weak.

"I'm gunnin' for you Quinn!" came Joker's voice from up in the boxes, and her heart had stalled in her chest at his hysterical laughter.

The ripping of gunfire stilled in the proscenium at this announcement, to be heard off through the walls, as Joker found the stairs, making his way from the balcony and down to her level.

Fuck.

Every fibre of her being screamed for escape, and Harleen spun and darted to the wings, headed backstage, to the nearest exit she could possibly reach. She ran, lungs hot with every panting breath she took, lunging the corners to be stopped dead in her tracks by a sheer giant of a man, resting on his shoulder – a BAZOOKA?!

She screeched, shrill and desperate, tearing back the other way, heels clacking madly on the wood.

What the–!

Harleen headed back out across the stage, where again, she was stopped by gunpoint. This time, a portly man with a rifle blocked her exit from the theatre. She couldn't even feel the heavy sobs that left her, nor the tears that streamed down her face and salted her lips.

"Be a good girl an' come with us and I won't have ta' hurt ya'"

She made a run for it – jolting over ravaged seats, Harleen bolted, bursting her way through to the staff corridor. She heard gunfire closely behind, more gunfire further off, and screams throughout the venue.

Harleen slumped against the wall and into the woman's bathroom, only to find it was without any windows or means of escape. Her cries were so hard, they were silent, as she dragged herself into a cubicle and locked the door. Harleen pulled her feet up onto the toilet, and clasped at her mouth tightly. She could not contain the ebbing grief without it, where she would crouch and wait for death to come for her.

She heard a scuffle from outside, of punches being thrown and the clattering of a rifle. She held her breath until her lungs blazed, and the door of the bathroom swung open.

"Miss Quinzel?" a male voice called out to her, a voice she recognised from the television, from interviews and press conferences – Bruce Wayne? But she remained silent, cooped up in her cubicle, her voice so small that it wouldn't come out.

Fire rattled off in the distance, with laughter – awful laughter – and the bathroom door closed shut. So all the money in the world and it couldn't buy some bravery. She sunk into the seat, body trembling. Why? Why? Why? Why?

After a momentary lapse in emotional control, Harleen cried heavily into her clawed hands, cramped up and rigid with fear. But she only took a moment for it, before forcing herself to her feet and unbolting the door. She couldn't just stay sitting here, the Joker would eventually find her – and then what?

Harleen whimpered as she stepped out and into the corridor, saw the portly man on the floor, disarmed and unconcious, with no gun to be seen. She continued to brave the great unknown, gingerly making her way around each and every corner. Wiping her eyes when her vision blurred with tears. There were still yells and cries throughout, but no gunfire, no laughter. Had the Joker given up on pursuing her? She managed to stop off at her changing room, still uprooted and messy from the night before. Harleen groped for her keys and left everything else.

There was the door, ahead – with nothing blocking her path to it. No giants, no bazookas. The stage exit that led directly to the carpark and directly to her means of escape. She ran, ran with a new lease of energy, keys jangling in her fist, threw open the door and out into the night, where she thundered towards her car in the distance, the cold whipping at her drenched face.

But a loud whooshing zoomed past her, and where her car had been in her eyeline, was now a mushroom of orange and red, of scorching metal and burning petrol. She turned to spot the huge man, who had taken out her car in one clean shot.

She screamed, she screamed until it felt as though her chest would explode, until a hand wound it's way around her neck and squeezed ever so slightly.

"Shhh."

Her eyes roved to the side to seek the man who was pressed against her, one hand twisting an arm behind her back, and another at her throat.

The corpse white of his face was only half visible through caked foundation, as though a demon had chipped it's way through to the outside. His lips, his cheeks, his shirt, were deep red and smeared with blood. And his smile – his smile –

Blackness creeped at the edges of her vision, and a ringing in her ears deafened her. Harleen could see the Joker's mouth move, but could no longer hear or make out the words. Her heart hammered violently, and her limbs tingled with pins and needles, until the blackness overwhelmed and all consciousness was gone.


	4. Chapter 4: Autographs

_Delicate, diamante heels sifted through scattered roses, that kept on falling until she was waltzing through a carpet of florals. The noise, the cameras, the many hundreds of faces, eyes wide and shining, all looked up in idolisation through streams of petals and confetti. She'd done it – she'd made it – and her heart swelled with joy. She was filled with love, and light. It glowed beneath her skin, and she shone like the brightest beacon. Uplifted, she was floating, higher and higher – and she couldn't stop rising. But the higher she rose, up into the heavens of the domed theatre, among the clouds and the cherubs, the harder it was to hear the joyous chorus of the fans beneath. The sound distorted, to laughter, a high and horrible laughter, to distant echoing cries – of grief. She squinted down at the people below, and realised, with a sudden pang of fear, the falling petals had turned to bullets, raining down upon her admiring crowd. And they were too enamoured to notice the holes that opened them up, too drawn by her light to realise the sea of roses at their feet had turned into a churning sea of blood and rising._

 _No –_

 _The elation, the warm embrace of acceptance, that weightlessness, dissapated in an instant. And she grew heavy, struggling to stay afloat and above the hellish scene below. She flailed, taking ahold of the lip of the balcony, and hung suspended over the crimson maelstrom._

 _"Somebody help! Anybody!" Her voice crackled, arms trembling with the weight, fingers slipping, "– please!"_

 _Rough hands grabbed for her wrists, so tight that it hurt, and Harleen looked up to be greeted face-to-face with her rescuer. The Joker. "Wakey-wakey," he breathed, hot air against her sore cheeks and her mouth emptied with screams._

 _"Let– go– of me!" Harleen squealed, frantic and thrashing as his garish, stark features hovered over her, grinning wildly like a Cheshire cat._

 _"Whatever ya' say Harls," he laughed, and released his grip without argument, eyes glinting as he stepped back and into the shadows._

 _It was too late to cry back out for him, as Harleen's fingers slipped one by one, arms gave way, and she plummeted down, down into the mass of writhing bodies, and sank deep into the liquid abyss._

Harleen spluttered, chest burning as she choked up a lungful of water. She heaved, but her stomach was empty. With her chin resting limply against her collar bone, Harleen was panting, soaked through.

Before she was able to catch back her breath, another pale of freezing water was thrust at her face. The shock of it bought her senses back to lucidity – and Harleen came to realise, immediately, that she was bound tight. Bound to a chair by reams and reams of flickering fairy lights.

What's happenin' to me?

"J, she's awake."

The announcement came from a clown-masked figure, who lingered by the dim light of the TV, white noise. Watching her patiently, with the bucket he'd used to half drown her swinging at his side. She tried to scream but her throat was raw, and nothing but a mewling squeak escaped.

"Don't do this, please." Harleen struggled weakly against the many plastic binds that blinkered from her shoulders to her shins. "Don't hurt me, please – I'll do anythin'! You don't gotta do anythin' please –"

"You don't gotta do anythin'!" approached Joker, voice high and mocking on the tail end of a chuckle. Whose thin silhouette stepped through the dusty beams of moonlight, his own set and stage inside an old abandoned warehouse. He was followed by his men, who too, laughed, and came to stand before her, eyeing her hungrily – a pack of hyenas drooling for meat.

Harleen was certain her heart had stopped beating, her muscles grew rigid, and nerve endings buzzed and tingled with terror. "Oh – God –"

"Not quite," The Joker grinned, and flicked open, with a flash, a butterfly knife.

Harleen whimpered, staring up through a dirtied, sodden fringe of platinum blonde. "Please–"

He bent forward, lifting her chin with the gentle press of the blade, until their eyes met and he smiled at her, his eyes sharper and more piercing than that of the knife at her throat.

"You don't look much like your photos–" he said, scrutinising each and every feature, as the Joker indicated to the front page of a recent newspaper, pinned up against wall by all manner of sharp and unspeakable objects.

"Why are ya' – why are ya' doin' this to me?" Her body shook violently. Her back arched against the back of the chair, desperately seeking inches of distance between them and the knife. Tears streamed down her face, her skin raw and sticky.

His smile was unwavering, and his head tilted to the side, curious. "Why?" He laughed, and looked back at his men to prompt them to join him in his giggling. "Why am I doin' this? You mean to say you don't know?"

Harleen shook her head, the tiniest and most terrified movement. "No."

There was a flicker of anger in his features, and the corners of his bright red lips dropped, if only for an instant. "Well, Harls, I don't take to thieves too kindly you know – and you sure enough stole from me kid."

Thief? Harleen's mind was a mess. Terrified, confused, she wracked her brain trying to understand. "I've never –" she shook her head again, pleading, "I ain't ever taken anythin' from ya' I swear it! You've got the wrong gal–"

"No. No. No. No. No. No. I've got the RIGHT GAL and I know it 'cause I watched you do it from right under my nose–"

She felt the prick of the knife at her jaw, and squeaked as he broke the skin, the beads of blood as it trickled, with sweat, down her neck. She shook with heavy cries. "I swear to ya' Jo– Mr – Mista' J, I ain't–"

"You did it with style kid, I'll at least give you that." And the Joker straddled her lap, knife between his teeth, to don a pair of thin blue medical gloves he pulled from his sleeve like a morbid magician. He flashed her a brilliant smile, and gave her sore face a few gentle taps before resting the knife against her mouth instead. "An' now you got me all riled up," he tutted.

"Please, don't –"

"Wait!"

The Joker's head snapped from her to the fat man she'd faced at the theatre, who came huffing over. "Before ya' do ya' thing boss –"

* * *

"The fuck do you think you're doin'?!" Joker hissed, withdrawing the blade from the girl's lips and pointing it at Eric.

And Eric stalled his advance, hands up to reveal a pen in one hand, and a screwed sheet of paper in the other. Joker's eyes narrowed, what the fuck, and he barked again, "I said, what the fuck are you doin'?!"

"You better have a good reason to be disturbing us or I'll be killing you right here–" Joker snapped, and felt Harleen Quinzel trembling beneath him at the threat. He was already regretting hugely his decision to have had Eric's unconscious lump retrieved and dragged from the building, when he and Claus could of handled Miss Quinzel's fainting self on their own.

"I figured boss – before ya' do this, I was wonderin' if perhaps… I could get an autograph?" Two beady, hopeful, beetle-black eyes flitted to Harleen Quinzel, and Joker seethed.

"You gotta be jokin'" Joker growled, though threateningly calm at the query.

"I just thought that–"

"Yeah, I'll do it! Anything!" The blonde mess that he sat upon piped up, shrilly. "Hell, I'll give ya' all the autographs ya' want – signed photos, you name it I can get 'em – just let me speak with my agent 'n I can get ya' whatever ya' want!"

Joker took hold of her throat and squeezed with force, shutting off her noise with one white-knuckled fist. And he squeezed until her legs twitched beneath him, watched her gaping for air he'd shut out of her lungs. "You wanna steal my men from me too, huh?" he whispered harshly against her ear, before letting her go and leaving her gasping.

He turned his attention to Eric, now white as a sheet.

"I take that as a no then–"

"You do that."

"I'll do anythin' ya' want–" Harleen Quinzel muttered, amidst rattling breaths. "But please, don't kill me– I don't wanna– I've never taken anythin' from you."

"That's where you're wrong, kid." He shifted in his little seat on her lap, inching ever closer. "You thought you could steal the people of Gotham from me? Their prince? You thought you could just spring up and take it?"

She looked up at him through watery, wide eyes as she listened. Her small, delicate lips trembling, the pale, soft skin of her neck, already reddened by the tight grip of his hand. "I never thought–"

"You think they needed you do you? A little thing like you, flavour of the month?" He laughed, coldly, poking gently the needle point of his knife up into her gums. "I'm gonna show you princess, just how wrong you are."

He could hear her heart thudding violently, and her hands clenched-unclenched again and again, as she shuddered with fear beneath him.

"Whattabout a selfie instead?"

That was it. Joker leapt up from Harleen's lap without warning. "I swear to fuckin' Christ, Eric if you don't shut your damn mouth I will cut out your fuckin' tongue!"

Both men and his captive shifted in fear of his outburst.

"You hearin' this kid –" he laughed, loud, exaggerated. "You all tied up and bleeding and this fucking dunce here wants to know if you wanna take a selfie." He howled, with laughter, but not for any second did he find this funny. "These are the people you want to love you?!"

She winced at his shouting, crying silently. "Not everybody–"

"Oh no, Harls, EVERYBODY." He waggled his knife at her, "everybody is just like this. Don't you see? These people would just as much cheer you on stage, as they would you being strung up and shanked by me. 'cause Gotham's people are MY people, and I'm gonna show you just that – you wait –"

And Joker slammed the knife into the wood of the chair beside her head, so that it splintered and stuck. "Keep watch," he ordered, "gag her if you gotta." And then stood abruptly. "Don't you go anywhere," he told Harleen, before storming off into the darkness, big boots dragging and scuffed against dirty concrete.


	5. Chapter 5: The Interview

Joker had left Harleen Quinzel in the care of his men for three days, where he had taken the time to mull over his next move against her. The thing with Harleen, now that he had her, was his involvement in her kidnapping had only worked to elevate her status in the eyes of Gotham citizens. And that by Joker having openly shown interest in pursuing her, the masses now followed suit. Just who was Harleen Quinzel and why did the Joker want her? It was the current talk of the town, much to his chagrin. And though Joker thoroughly enjoyed knowing there was a compelled audience discussing his work, the fact that his name was closely followed by her own, was not so easy to accept. It seemed that the whispers of Joker went arm in arm with the cries for Harleen Quinzel, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

He needed a new approach – if he kept her captive for long enough, he knew the public interest would only naturally fizzle out. And he knew that by killing her and dumping her body, there would be a brief time of mourning for their short-lived celebrity, and then the hype, again, would soon die out. Though both efficient and easy options for Joker, he couldn't erase the thought that told him it would be a waste if he were to act upon them. That he could do something much bolder and grander with the gift he'd swept up from the stage. That there was something more, something essential he was missing. Some minor detail he had yet to uncover.

And so, with a taped interview he'd carefully recorded off the news the night before (nibbling popcorn alone) tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket, Joker sped his way back to the warehouse, and back to his project within.

The fairy lights wound about Harleen were no longer as taut, or as well placed as Joker had originally done for her. The constant unlashing and relashing of her binds due to bathroom breaks had taken it's toll on his set-up. Nor did half the bulbs light up anymore. One of his men had tucked their large, leather jacket over her shoulders, so that she was blanketed from her neck to her knees to shield her from the morning chill, and her heels had been removed to make way for giant socks, also donated, for warmth. Joker noted that she hadn't been gagged as he'd suggested – and that a scattering of playing cards in her lap told him they'd been passing the time, Joker had been absent, with games instead. The scene looked more after-party, than hostage/homicide, which wasn't truly that unusual for Joker.

It was the orange hours of dawn, and along with most of his men, Harleen was still asleep. Her head sagged low and breathing calmly, her chest rose and fell in steady succession. Joker approached her, treading very cautiously and without footfalls, to retrieve his knife still inbedded inches from her ear.

And Harleen stirred on the grating sound of splintered wood, no matter the care he'd taken, and her eyes flickered open to stare up at him. At first dazed – and then filled with horror upon realisation of the figure before her. "Shh – shh." A finger pressed to his lips only made her worse, and she screamed so loudly and so suddenly even Joker jumped.

His guys all roused in confusion and the echoed clicking of guns, to aim instinctively, but unintentionally, at their own boss.

"Oh it's you."

"It's just J, everyone relax–"

"Couldya' have dropped us a text first?"

A relevant point, Joker chose to ignore it. "I see you've been having fun," he stated, dusting the hand of cards from Harleen's thighs, and his entourage fell quiet considering the rhetoric.

"Havin' fun- are you mad?" Harleen snapped, and Joker was taken aback by the fact she'd spoken, rather than screeched.

He grinned. "We'll, I'm sure glad you asked toots, most people just assume."

And though she trembled in his wake, her eyes were daggers and bravely challenging considering her position. So, Miss Quinzel was not a morning person. Noted.

"I got something that'll cheer ya' right up," he continued, pulling the TV and it's tall, steel stand forward so that Harleen was positioned nicely before it. "I bought you a present."

He noticed that momentary bravery disappear at the notion of a gift, and Harleen's eyes flitted to and from him to the little television set, thoroughly concerned and distrustful. But she said nothing and simply watched as he pulled out the VHS, and fed it to the player.

"Gather round boys," he beckoned his men to join them, and too found a chair to drag across – perching himself adjacent to Quinzel, so he could watch her expressions intently. He was excited to see her reaction to this particular piece of footage he himself had howled at. And had chosen it with much consideration, of all the coverage, this was the one to watch.

* * *

Harleen didn't want to watch whatever the Joker had intended for her. She didn't want to take her eyes off of his, off of his idle hands, or his ever changing expressions. But she was frightened, she was threatened and she was so, so tired that the white noise fizzing on the little screen seemed to draw her in, and pull her from her bleak and terrible situation.

His goons had been mostly good to her. Not good enough to set her free, but good enough to feed her, and good enough to take her to the old bathrooms and let her piss without sneaking a peak. They weren't entirely devoted, but neither were they deranged – and Harleen didn't batter an eyelid as they pulled up rusted steel chairs to join them. Joker, however, was far too close for comfort.

The familiar jingle of Gotham City News blurted out from the box before them. And the anchors therein looked on, shuffling blank papers and feigning looks of sadness. Harleen squinted for a better focus, but could not read the subtitles or highlights without her glasses. Though it didn't take much to guess what the subject matter would be.

"It has been a tragic few days for the people of Gotham City," spoke a grave-faced woman, "with no news yet on the disappearance of Harleen Quinzel – the police assure us they are working tirelessly in hopes of bringing her back, safe and sound."

"Indeed," spoke another, a man so pampered by make-up, he shon at the camera. "The commissioner has turned on the batsignal, and we can hope that the greatest detective is already working steadily on the case."

Harleen noticed the Joker turn to the television at the mention of that, and he scoffed loudly, flicking up the volume on the set before catching her watchful eye –

Harleen became too preoccupied with his video however. And it was surreal to see her photos flash up on the screen, on what had been live television. A tiny, a teensy, a terrible part of her felt a squirming joy at the thought of so many people talking about her, looking for her. She stared hard at the screen, hard enough for her eyes to ache, in order to fight the smallest impulse to simply smile at the reception she was receiving, even second hand.

"It's not all doom and gloom," the gent tried to remind the viewers. "There has been a great deal of bravery, of resilience shown from the cast and crew – and here we are now, with Vicki Vale and the lovely Peyton Riley. How are you doing Vicki?"

The screen flitted to a live location, a busy street near a different theatre, thin sheets of rain muffling the sound from their microphones. The red-head reporter paled in comparison to her counterpart, Peyton Riley, who looked to the camera with a coy and careful simper.

"There's still a great deal of pain here–" spoke Vicki through the drizzle, mic pressed to her lips, "and such a sense of loss– but everyone has come together in order to make this work. They are going to continue on with the production, despite the heinous actions of the Joker. To stand tall against the enemy, isn't that right, Miss Riley?"

The Joker laughed loudly at his mention, but Harleen ignored him, leaning closer still to the TV, filled with dread for what Riley had to say.

Peyton pulled back her blonde locks for a better shot from the camera. "Oh yes, Vicki, most definitely. Though we miss Harleen terribly, and it won't be the same without her, we know she'd have wanted the work to continue here." She flashed a set of brilliantly white teeth, "the show must go on, as Harleen would have said–"

"Tha's a lie!" Harleen cried out at the screen, despite herself – and drew odd and questioning looks from all but the Joker, who smirked from ear to ear.

"She a friend of yours?"

"I'll be performing in place of Harleen Quinzel until she is back home safe and ready for our company," Riley spoke with a sickeningly convincing assurance. "We're all praying for you Harleen, please come home–" and the recording ended abruptly.

Harleen still watched the screen, though blank, her stomach knotted and throat tight. Is this how the Joker had felt, seeing her in the papers? Is that why, out of all the footage he could have recorded, he'd chosen this? No wonder she was strapped to a chair, tear-and-blood stained. Her fists were balled, and she squeezed her nails into her palms to keep from crying. This just – it wasn't fair! She'd made it, she'd had it all within reach, she'd taken it and now, now it sat in the hands of the one person she'd tried so hard to keep it from. She sniffled.

"Are you crying?" the Joker asked, with the least concern she'd heard in her life. And his coldness triggered an avalanche of emotion, until she was sobbing so hysterically she could barely breathe.

None of them, not even the Joker, seemed prepared for her outburst, and all of them moved back a few inches to make way for her tirade of frustration and sadness.

"Do you want me to kill her?" The Joker suggested in the most casual tone. It struck a chord somewhere within Harleen, that she wailed even louder and could not stop.

"Oh g–great, so y–you wanna r–replace me a– as well, do ya'? You– wanna s–swap me out too– that I – I can't even k–keep a murderer e–entertained enough–"

The Joker looked to his men as though searching for answers, and Harleen sobbed loudly, heavily, all the while. A couple of them shrugged.

"Am I – I – that terrible – that I can't even – can't even – keep a killer wantin' to kill me– s–so it – it's not just t–them it's y–you too?"

"Hey, settle down kid, you're scaring the boys."

"J, you can't promise a girl you're gonna kill her, and then not. That's just cold."

"Yeah, boss, you can't build it all up like this and then bring in someone new, that ain't gonna work–"

"That's not what I meant! I never said that!" His eyes darted back and forth from his men to Harleen, brows furrowed as he snapped their comments shut. When his gaze came to meet with Harleen again, it stilled her hysteria and silenced her cries.

"Don't you worry," he told her with a light chuckle, and extended a thin finger to outline the delicate shape of her jaw, "I'm still gonna kill ya', don't you worry your pretty little head about that–"

And Harleen couldn't tear away from his gaze, though she spilled over with tears and looked back through a watery haze. The Joker had her transfixed. Somehow able to drag her from her despair, he held her in a frozen moment, where all the hurt, the pain and the insult had gone, and instead left her with one overwhelming, all-consuming feeling, the fear and anticipation of him.


	6. Chapter 6: Wined and Dined

They'd finally loosened up on the Christmas light bondage, and Harleen had been granted some small freedoms ever since her emotional fireworks following the Peyton tape. She was unsure if that had been the reason for the change of plan, or if this was simply another part of the Joker's game, where she remained the unwilling pawn. Still, Harleen was now allowed to wander the entirety of the ground floor of the warehouse, and though she was, of course, on constant surveillance (and sometimes at knife or gunpoint) the Joker appeared to have authorised her a fair bit of leg room. It beat being bound to a chair none-the-less.

As the days flickered by and blended into the next, the raw fear of the Joker's announcement – the promise he'd kill her – ebbed away to a quiet paranoia. The less she saw of the clown and the less he acted on it, the less time she lingered on the thought of it.

Instead, Harleen spent most of her time on domestic chores, on sweeping, dusting, and along with the help of the Joker's men and their kleptomania, had managed to make herself a little sanctum of sorts. For though it was her prison, that did not mean it had to look like one. They'd used the battered stream of lights, that had once been her bonds, to wrap around a steel beam. They had then, under her instruction, dragged in a mattress to sit beneath the multicolour blinkers. They'd rolled out a tattered rug for her and supplied her with blankets stale with cigarette smoke. In payment, she'd given them the autographs they'd so wanted, and for Eric, she'd offered up her bra. Of which he was very grateful.

The Joker's guys worked in shifts around Harleen, bringing pizza, fast foods, and clothes, either from their girlfriends, wives or their own wardrobes. They'd managed to get a shower cubicle working for her use, and Harleen had been so grateful of this, she'd hugged the masked man tightly, whom had stood rigid and awkwardly, eyes averted despite her having already donned a towel.

Harleen wasn't alone here. In fact, she'd felt more alone back at her empty home in town, or in the busy city bars and restaurants, than she felt in this place. She was a little hurt by the implications in that. And though redecorating her patch in the dusty setting had helped to distract her from the horror which she currently lived, her mind would wander back to the life she'd had, the life she'd grasped for, before the Joker had shown up and pulled the red carpet out from under her feet.

It had been everything she'd wanted, hadn't it? The love, the adoration – yes, without question, that's what she had wanted. Still wanted. But the world in which it came from had been altogether different from what she'd hoped, what she'd dreamed it would be. The metaphorical knives she'd come to find in her back, were sharper than any of those in the Joker's possession, and their faces and smiles wilder and falser than that of his too.

The director had taken advantage of her desperation, when she'd first been proposed for the role – and had assured her that, by offering certain generosities, she would leap rungs on the ladder to success. Harleen, however, had not realised that those generosities had meant skirt hiked up to her chest, and bent over the leathers in his pop-up apartment. Nor fucked without end (or climax) at nameless motels whenever it suited.

She hadn't realised, either, how the wealthy elite pursuing the same craft would shun her, for her near-on-empty bank account, her modest background, her career naivety – even scrutinising her energetic, friendly and open demeanour, as they considered it inappropriate, and most off-putting of all, gave the common folk someone to relate to.

It did at times, bring a choking sadness, to think of how much she'd tried to find a familiar thread among them. That by sacrificing dignity and integrity – of which they had very little – she had only further distanced herself. That, despite all the effort, and later, the short cuts she'd taken, meant that no matter how much she tried to be like them and among them, her face would never, ever fit.

It was true – though it pained her to admit – the Joker was right about the people she had wanted to love her. Still wanted to love her. Was it so terrible though, to want to be loved and adored?

And even in it's darkest moments, she had longed for it. The fame and admiration. And Harleen knew that she couldn't stay, she couldn't stay and wait for the impending promise of death. With each and every dusted surface, swept floor, she closely monitored the patterns of her hulking guards, and decided firmly then, that she would find a means of getting free. That she would reclaim her throne, from Peyton Riley the false queen, and even from the clown prince of crime himself.

And with the Joker nowhere to be seen, Harleen decided, as soon as night fell and the men swapped their night shifts among themselves, she would make her move and escape.

* * *

It wasn't like Joker to do his funny business during the day, but it just so happened that in the more savoury, still-sunny hours in Gotham City, the Penguin's Iceberg Lounge was shut. And since he wasn't an intended paying customer, that was exactly how he wanted it. The shutters at the back of the building did very little to deter him, and Joker waved at the CCTV before approaching the security measures, along with two of his men. Claus, as standard, and his more theatrical masked-man Floyd (fuck Eric, after all.) The electric blue of neon lights buzzed on and off before them, confirming exactly what Joker wanted to see. **Closed.**

Thing was, with Penguin, is that he always had money. He was good with money – no, very good with money – and Joker was, well, not so much. He didn't tend to his books with as much care and precision as Penguin, and therefore often found, after satisfying and superficial splurges, he was once again counting change.

It didn't help matters (Joker's own ludicrous purchases aside) that the new celebrity hostage he was holding, happened to be eating them out of house and home. He had indeed raised a questioning eyebrow when he had witnessed Harleen Quinzel tuck into three pizzas in the space of only hours, and had made a passing pun "you're a real pizza work, you know that?"

Of which she'd replied very simply, very rudely "fuck you."

Eric had comforted Joker in that it was only to be expected, that the girl was clearly depressed. Depressed!? He'd got a good laugh out of that one. Not only had they been clothing her – and (constantly) feeding her, he'd been spending his last dollars on satiating her every whim. And so, he found himself outside the Iceberg Lounge, in much need of some serious cash, and knowing exactly where to find it.

He couldn't, after all, let the girl think he was broke. Appearances mattered, mattered a lot. The king of the city couldn't just let his hostage starve. What kind of crime lord would they take him for?

Joker watched as Claus applied the circular saw to the metal, and sparks dotted and burned tiny holes through his suit. It took an excruciating five minutes in plain sight before the sheet tore through and the three of them made entry. The alarm triggered, the sound of a hundred squawking birds – ("And they call me mad!") – which meant it wouldn't be long before Penguin's tuxedo-donning, guns-blazing henchmen were upon them.

The Iceberg Lounge was a large and lavish affair. Five floors, an ice bar, a gentleman's club and a museum, the place was a clash of old and new, class and crass. But they weren't here to sight-see, Joker had, in fact, much bigger fish to fry. And they moved on through the empty vicinity and down into the bowels of the building.

They needed to be fast, and Joker was quick to find the correct room. Speaking of fish, the massive shark tank, and the shark therein did happen to give it away, and Joker smirked upon breaking and entering into Penguin's old, misused office. That despite being old, and misused, still held a certain safe Joker had known and wanted for a while.

Claus, without needing direction, noiselessly lifted the massive safe from it's chains, and uprooted the entirety without even breaking a sweat. They didn't have time to open it of it's contents, and Claus carried it back out and into the hall with them.

From floors above, even over the racket of the screeching alarm, Joker could hear that Penguin's men had breached. And they hurried their way through to the cellar, both Floyd and Joker now leading with guns. The men were advancing quickly on them, both sufficient and speedy, the Penguin got the quality in which he paid for.

Despite the hurry, Joker stopped, suddenly, amongst the barrels and wine racks, inspired. Since Miss Quinzel was so depressed, Joker was certain a couple of bottles of the vintage good stuff would have her in lighter spirits! And he began to survey the stock as though browsing the aisles of a supermarket.

"I reckon she'd like the red, boss," said Floyd, as though reading Joker's mind. One thing Penguin didn't have, and something you couldn't buy – comradery.

"I think you're right," he replied, and picked from the shelves three bottles of Château La Mission – and one for luck, which he passed to Floyd to carry, since the workhorse Claus, was already stacked full.

And the three of them hurried through the labyrinth of corridors, of strange and odd antiquities, passed the curtained peepholes, until they made upon the side entrance, which Joker took great pleasure in shattering with a few joyous shots of his pistol.

The gunfire drew the attention of Penguin's men in pursuit and Joker and his cronies hurried their way back out into the lot and towards his car.

"Mind the leather–" Joker warned, but it was too late – and Claus threw the safe into the back seat, tearing through the cream interior, like a knife through butter.

It was fortunate for Claus that Joker didn't have time to rant about it, as Floyd flung himself into the drivers seat, and Joker last, leaped into shotgun.

The windshield shattered from a near deadly shot and Floyd slammed his feet to the floor to create as much distance as possible. Joker cringed with each popping sound of a bullet denting or grazing his car, and whined when the back window was taken out too– "I really liked this one!"

Floyd was too busy dodging traffic to assure him, and Claus was quietly setting up a sniper in the back seat.

It was dark by the time the chase subsided, as Penguin's men had continued to pursue them in black armored vans. The GCPD had managed to take out two of them, but hadn't been able to stop Joker's now entirely beat and battered lamboughini. Claus had helped tenfold, by taking out the enemy wheel after wheel. And they were all exhilarated and relieved when, with their loot still intact, drew up to the waters edge, the warehouse in sight. Another eventful day over.

But something was off as they pulled up to their current hideout, and Joker heard the echoes of shots rattling from inside. He was filled with anger – with dread – at the thought of his hideout being invaded, and even more so considering the content within. Floyd had to slam hard on the breaks as a flash of blonde darted out and in front of them. Joker's heart leapt up and into his throat.

Through the cracked glass, he saw her, clearly shocked and appalled to find Joker blocking her escape, yet again. And it all became clear to Joker then, as Harleen Quinzel stared at him, wildly, illuminated by the headlights and frozen in fear.

Joker's stomach writhed with a rage he could barely contain. "You're gonna wish he'd kept driving –" he muttered, to her, to himself, to the abyss, it didn't matter. And with a bottle of wine still in hand, wrenched open the door and out to greet her.

"Oh no you don't –" he grabbed her roughly, trembling and shaking from the bonnet. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Her little mouth gaped, and she looked up at him in terror. She couldn't even find a voice in which to answer him. Joker sneered wickedly, taking a fistful of her hair and dragging her from his car.

"I give you a little space and this is how you thank me?"

She recoiled at his fury and cried out when his fist clenched even harder "please–"

Not this again.

With one solid kick, the door to the warehouse swung open and Joker was met with the sweaty, scared face of Eric, who, rifle in hand, was shaking just as much as Harleen.

"I didn't mean to – she just got away – I didn't know that –"

 **BANG!**

In one fluid movement, Joker had pocketed the bottle of wine, and withdrawn his pistol, firing one single shot straight into Eric's head, smattering brain and skull up the stairwell.

Harleen erupted. She screamed and wailed within the ringing of the gunfire in his ears. She'd gone limp and far easier to guide, as he urged her roughly back into the room she had attempted to escape from.

Joker threw her down upon the chair he'd first had her tied to, and with a shaking hand poised the gun at her face. She cried so hard and so desperately at this, Joker felt nothing but anger – of loathing, as she begged silently for his mercy.

"You are pushing me princess," he warned, a low and guttural growl, his finger itching at the trigger.

"Don't do this – please – I don't wanna die – please –"

"Bring me two glasses," he barked at Floyd, who he spotted, along with Claus, dragging in the loot. And his masked henchman hurried off, without question.

Moments passed between Joker and Miss Quinzel, and his eyes burned into her distraught and desperate face. With the barrel still raised at her head, she sat unmoving, tears rolling and rolling.

"You've hurt my feelings, you know?" he told her, poking her forehead and prompting only more sobs from her. "I had a nice evening planned and you go and do this."

"I'm sorry! I'm so– so sorry M–Mister J–"

Floyd returned with two wine glasses as asked. Joker took one for himself and indicated with a nod of his head, that one was intended for Harleen.

"Take it," he told her, still at the end of his gun, and Harleen did without argument, her terrified expression now also etched with confusion.

"Be a good man and pour us a glass would you?" he asked Floyd, who pulled the wine bottle from Joker's pocket, pulled the cork with a knife and filled their glasses. Harleen's first, and then Joker's. "And make it a large one."

And Joker clinked the glass with his pistol, urging Harleen to "drink it." She flinched and hesitated. "Go on, drink it."

"Is it – it is poison?" her voice was tiny, and she hiccupped her question.

Joker's anger wavered despite himself. "No, it isn't poison." In fact, to prove to her it wasn't, he took his share and necked it.

Harleen, still crying quietly, drew up her own to her lips and took a long sip. She watched him from over the rim of the glass, sniffling. "It's good," she said timidly, draining to the very last drop.

"How'd you like another, Harls?"

"You– had me– at merlot–"

Ha! Joker smiled, the widest smile, and his gun finally fell away from Harleen's face and down to his side. "You heard the girl, fill us up!"


	7. Chapter 7: Merchandise

The music drawled and crackled from a scrap-heap gramophone, a crude but recognisable crooning echoed throughout the warehouse, no other choice than that of good old Frank Sinatra, the only vinyl they owned. Harleen was tap-and-kicking to the big band, dressed in an oversized velvet dinner suit, upon her head a jester's hat she'd raided from his henchmen's costume box of many disguises.

Her bottle in hand and swigging, Joker wondered if and when she'd notice it was empty. The adrenaline and drink coursed through his veins, and the grin on his face only widened at her antics. She was drunk. They were both drunk - though the former certainly moreso. She had cried, and laughed, and often both at the same time, having danced with his boys until taking the spotlight all for herself. And like this, he didn't half mind her having it.

Joker sat in his chair, dazed and blurry eyed. "I have to give it to you kid, you're pretty good!" And at his comment she had stumbled and Joker had laughed.

"Quit puttin' me off would ya'!"

She was a jester in the king's court, parading around without a single care in the world. You wouldn't have known, from watching her then, that her life had been dragged into turmoil, that she'd been barked at, threatened, been at knife and gunpoint. The alcohol had dulled their senses, but not enough for her to stop dancing, and not enough for Joker to not appreciate it.

He wouldn't half mind either, if she were to stay like this. Joker was actually rather impressed by her talent and he could see, plain as day, why the citizens of Gotham loved her. She was sweet and infectious, when she wasn't crying or begging or tucking her way into expensive take-away. Her smile could light up even the darkest of hearts, but therein was the problem. The citizens of Gotham had turned their ever-wandering eyes to this glittering angel, and had been so foolish to ignore the devil lurking in shadow.

"You really missed an opportunity with your stage name," he said, pointing a wavering finger at his jingling hostage. "You should of gone with Harley Quinn - you know like a -"

"H-arlequin," she hiccupped, nodding. "I know." She caught his eyes upon her, and her cheeks flushed with pink. Was that the wine?

"It suits you better," Joker told her. "You're a natural entertainer. You're lucky-"

"Lucky?" She'd stopped dancing, and now instead, stood staring at him, an eyebrow raised. "What about my situation gives ya' the idea that I'm lucky?"

Joker shrugged, non-chalant. "Well, you know," he suddenly couldn't bring his eyes up to meet with hers. "You're effortless," he said, "you don't have to do much of anything to get the people watching."

Harleen's eyes rolled and she scoffed. Not the reaction he'd expected from a compliment. "You have no idea what I've had ta' go through -"

"Oh, but I do." He leant forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. "Trust me."

She didn't seem convinced, and taking another swig from the bottle, finally noticed the wine was gone. "Sure ya' do."

"Why do you think I've got you here?" Joker asked, and the question piqued her interest.

"I figured you bein' a ragin' loon was reason enough," it was Harleen's turn to shrug.

"You're half way there," he smiled, all teeth. "But not quite. The reason I stole you off your stage was to get back my own. You're too much of a distraction to my fellow audience. I was left with little choice but to take out the competition. Nothing personal."

Her brow furrowed, and Joker realised his explanation had not been taken as well as he'd hoped. Apparently, not even the flowing wine could douse the insult.

"Nothin' personal?!" Harleen waved the bottle in her temper, and it's base shattered away against a steel support. It was accidental, and she didn't even notice.

"Easy-"

"Ya' mean to tell me, you stole me away because I took you're attention?!" She was suddenly waving the broken bottle at his face, still oblivious. "You ruined my chance at my dream 'cause they were lookin' at me and not you?" She laughed, it was loud, harsh and unlike her. "You are mad."

Joker's hands were up in a tiny surrender, backed up against the chair and away from the ragged shards. "That is the general consensus. From where I'm sitting, you don't look all that sound of mind yourself-"

"It's a bad angle!" She shot back aggressively, and inched closer in her fury. Watch it, watch it, watch it-

"You're telling me!"

Harleen lunged, but in her clumsy and enebriated state, Joker was quick to evade her. He ducked away from the incoming glass and out from underneath, squeezing the neck of the bottle from her grip and onto the floor, where it smashed into thousands of sparkling needles.

The noise of it shattering seemed to awaken her senses, and he watched as she put two-and-two together, from the mess on the floor, to his hands tightly wound around her wrists. The anger in her features subsided, and Harleen wilted beneath him. "I didn't mean ta'-" She was frightened.

"Forget about it," he flashed her a smile and wound his hands into hers. Her eyes roved his expression, wary of his closeness. "You better start dancing with me or they'll be calling you mannequin next."

Though unsure at first, Harleen did indeed sway with him - and a small and gradual smile came back to her tender features as he led her in a gentle circle.

"You're real funny Mister J, ya' know that?"

"So I've been told."

* * *

CLUNK. CLUNK. **CLANG**. CLUNK. CLANK. CLUNK. CLANG.

"Jesus, boys would you give it a fucking rest?!"

Harleen cringed at the sound of the Joker's voice. Not because she had come to be fearful of it, but because her head felt as though it was being split into two. The Joker too, appeared to be feeling the agony, as her eyes fluttered open to spot him, half-asleep and crookedly perched upon the chair she'd once been strapped to.

Somehow, she'd made it onto her mattress last night, and had fallen into an empty and dreamless sleep. It seemed as though the Joker had been much less fortunate, and spent a night, all gangly limbs array on a tiny wooden pedestal. How they'd ended up this way around was nothing short of a mystery, as was the way with many of the events from the previous evening. And Harleen could tell by his tone, that the Joker had not slept well.

His men stopped whatever destructive activity they had been up to, and the Joker groaned aloud from his seat. She propped herself up with her elbows, and watched as he roused to true consciousness. His hands roved through his hair and he sighed aloud before catching her glancing his way. Her heart stilled.

"How are you feeling, Harls?" he asked, and his genuine inquiry took her off guard.

"I've felt better-" she answered, and he smiled at her. In the same way he'd smiled as they'd danced through the night. With an almost sincere gentleness. Her heart remained still in her chest. Had they danced? The shattered glass that littered the floor told her so, and the tightness in her ribs told her yes, they had. How his hands had been careful, considerate. How he'd guided her quietly through the night.

"Claus, get us some eggs!" the Joker then barked another order, and Harleen flinched at the loudness - pulling her unpleasantly from her wandering thoughts. The Joker must have noticed, because then followed, in a much, much quieter voice, "and some coffee, some water - some aspirin."

And so, the hulking giant she now knew as Claus, hurried away and off to wherever he were to find this list of the Joker's demands.

They ate and drank coffee together, to much less soothing sounds than the night before. They ate to the CLUNK. CLUNK. **CLANG.** CLUNK. as the Joker's cronies got back to work, attempting to crack a safe in the backdrop of their morning breakfast. They feasted, however, in silence, though she glanced at the Joker over the edge of her mug, or from behind a spoonful of yolk. She couldn't help but watch the man go about a regular life. Sipping coffee, eating breakfast and - they'd danced. He'd pointed a gun at her face, he'd cut her but yet, they'd danced. And it had been nice somehow. Real nice.

Finally, when she could no longer resist the urge, Harleen spoke, "Mister- UM - J, you know what you said last night - about your audience?"

His eyes pierced her then, and she stalled.

"Yes?"

"I think I kinda get it -" she said, eyes downward and taking to scrambling her egg with her fork.

He smiled, and continued on with his meal. "That's grand kid." Was he avoiding it now?

"You really shouldn't feel like that ya' know," she continued, with her focus on her plate in front of her she found she could get the words out. "You shouldn't feel like no one's payin' you any mind."

Harleen could feel him watching her, the hairs on her arms stood on end. "You're as famous as they come," she carried on, determined. "Like, really famous. They even sell t-shirts down by the subway that spell I SURVIVED THE JOKER for all the tourists to get a load of!" She exaggerated where the print would show on her top, had she been wearing one.

He laughed, "they do? Well that ain't exactly accurate..."

"And figures, and books, and plushies-"

"Plushies?"

Harleen nodded eagerly at him, "once you've killed me, you can go raid my apartment, you'll find one of your plushies there! I've set it up next to a lil' toy of Batman, though you don't really match, your head is way too big. My ex won it for me at the carnival! Batman's a McDonald's freebie, I got him in a happy meal, would ya' believe it!"

"I'm not gonna kill you," The Joker replied having listened intently to her enthusiasm, and she couldn't hide the surprise that flitted onto her features. "Yet- I mean." He coughed roughly into his cup of coffee.

"How's it coming along boys?!" he called abruptly turning away from her. And Harleen's heart took a dip that his attention was, so quickly, elsewhere. Was it something she had said? And he got up from his seat, just as abruptly, and away from his barely-touched breakfast, leaving Harleen to finish her food, alone with her thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8: Tragedies

Joker stood at the end of the pier with a flower in hand, watching as the sunset glinted off the surface of the river. All hues of blue and purple, he admired the view of high rises, as their little lights began to flicker into existence at the onset of dusk. The sharp and sophisticated cityscape of Gotham City, stretching up and into the sky, was waking to nightfall. Alongside him, stood Miss Quinzel, whose mascara ran dark tracks down her pale, pretty face, and down to her trembling lips. She was blanched, quiet, and too, held a rose to her chest, her small hands shaking around the stem.

Despite himself, Joker found her raw and emotional display quite touching - though it was indeed altogether wasted, considering the situation at hand. She'd crumbled the moment she'd seen Eric's body rolled into the back of their ride, and had been crying quietly to herself for the whole journey. Which was a shame since he much preferred when she was smiling. Even the offering of the rose hadn't cheered her up, and she'd snatched it from his hand and told him roughly to "just drive."

They'd driven out to the docks, and Joker's remaining men had prepared Eric's body on the decking. The body had been bound in plastic, secured with rope, and attached to bricks to ensure it would sink into the silt. Joker, however, had led Harleen to the end of the pier during their crude embalming, since it wasn't exactly ideal viewing for a lady. And all dressed in black, with her hair neatly curled, Harleen was just that.

And she stood alongside him, sniffling and sorry for herself, flinching occasionally at the sound of bone crunching and snapping by saw or mallet. Eric's body, after all, wasn't going to be sunk in one piece. He'd so far failed to mention that part, but Harleen was smart enough, and didn't once turn around to look.

"Everybody dies, Harls," Joker made his attempt at reassuring her over the unpleasantries behind them, and she shot him a dangerous glare.

"Everybody around you, ya' mean?"

Joker shrugged. She wasn't wrong - wasn't entirely right either. Since she was the perfect example (the only example, perhaps) of an intended that he hadn't quite managed to kill. Even now, with her looking up at him, mere inches from the lapping water and swirling currents, he just couldn't push her in. And though he was certain (so very certain) this dainty little dame would take little to no effort to expire, Joker couldn't do it. Didn't want to do it. And he refused to think more of it -

"He made a grave mistake and he paid for it," Joker told her simply and unapologetically.

Harleen didn't seem to like his tone, but was unable to lash out with a response. Interrupted by Floyd, Claus and his other men, who had finished brutalising and bagging the body parts. Eric's funeral procession was about to begin.

They came suited and booted, single file down the pier, five men, each carrying a part of Eric over their shoulder. Some of them had watery eyes, while others, like Claus, remained completely unperturbed by the grim nature of their visit to the riverside.

It wasn't a grand affair. It was somewhat gory, granted - but it was more of a send-off than most would expect considering their lifestyle choices. It wasn't a commonplace occurance for Joker to have his boys carry meaty sacks of bone and brittle, only to drop them one by one into the open mouth of the river. But it was worth it, since Harleen appeared to appreciate the sentiment over it's savagery.

In turn, each bloodied and bound lump was dropped gently into the ripples beneath their feet. A burial fit for the nature of the man, food for the fish and unlikely to find, and most importantly, unidentifiable. This wasn't the first time he'd dumped bodies, but it wasn't often that Joker dumped one of his own as though it were a funeral, with an audience to see the soul off and into the darkness.

"He may have been a pain in the ass at times, but he weren't half bad," spoke Floyd, who Joker had asked to speak a few words, (make it sound professional!) dropping what looked like a limb, into the river. He'd managed the former, at least.

"No, he was all bad," Joker laughed - but stopped when Harleen jabbed his arm roughly.

* * *

"Shh!" Harleen glowered at the Joker, despite knowing what the repercussions may be. They were plain as day, as she watched, each indistinguishable lump, as they bobbed and disappeared down into the waves. She'd seen what the Joker's wrath could do, as he'd rained bullets from her stage, and she'd seen him send the slug straight into the skull of one of his own men, without so much of a second thought. While staring out into the watery abyss, Harleen wondered what it would be like when it was her turn. If the Joker would use his hands on her gently, or not at all, and put a bullet into her face too, without an ounce of regret or remorse.

Her throat was tight, her stomach writhing, not with fear - not anymore - but with guilt. She understood that Eric had died having slept through her brief and unsuccessful escape. He'd been killed because she had taken advantage of his lackadaisical nature, he had been shot, point blank and she had gotten drunk and danced with his murderer. And worst of all, the very worst, she had enjoyed it. She may as well of waltzed over his cadaver, for the all the thought she'd given him when within the Joker's arms. And she paid for it now, with tears and flowers. It was all she had to give.

Of all the questionable things Harleen had done in her life, that had been certainly taken a place up there on the list. And yet she hadn't been able to shake the want for a reprise, for another dance with the Joker through the beams of dusty moonlight, no matter the body count. Harleen gave a small sob, pained by her conscience. How despicable was she, to want such a thing? That even when watching them drop parts of the man she'd briefly known into the depths, her eyes would still linger on back to the clown of carnage at her side.

"He may not have been with us long, but he was good with dealin' arms and doin' lines," masked-man spoke, casting his own corsage off into the calm turn of the tide. "May he rest in pieces - peace, sorry."

Harleen heard the Joker give another little laugh and she sighed.

"I don't really got much else to say. He was nearin' 50, that's a good age for guys like us." Floyd shrugged, and took a stand down from the edge of the pier.

It was the Joker's turn to give a few words, now that each limb and vital had been cast into the depths. And the Joker adjusted his suit with a certain smugness. Apparently there had been no love lost between the Joker and his deceased henchman. Harleen held her breath for the level of insult that was due to come, of how much ill would be spoken of the dead.

And Harleen stared at the Joker, whose bright eyes bore into her own, a small and confident smile crinkling his sharp and aggressive features. It was though he revelled in making her writhe, and writhe she did under his intense and unwavering gaze. This was all too surreal. Harleen felt out of body, and out of mind.

"Unfortunately for our dear boy Eric, he almost lost something of great value to me-"

Was he referencing her? Was she of great value? From the way the Joker stared, Harleen was certain. No one had considered her of much value at all. It was with wicked irony, it had come to her like this.

"And I reacted accordingly. Let that be a lesson."

Was he still talking to her? The men shuffled at his warning, nodding, murmuring. Harleen couldn't tear her eyes away.

"He would have let you go little Harley Quinn, and I can't have that. Accidents happen, but I can't just let you go- You understand, don't you?"

Was the Joker justifying his murder, solely for her? The guilt crept up to her lungs and was suffocating. She understood. All too well, she understood.

"You're mine, whether you like it or not, and anyone else who sleeps on the job gets a bullet in their brain just like Eric here."

You're mine. The way he said it, with an undeniable determination. Was it guilt that had her muscles tensing, her fists closing, her jaw tightening?

"If you so decide to have another little escapade of yours, think of this, think of Eric, and think of who else might end up taking a knife to the throat for the sake of your spontaneous adventures."

Her breath caught in her mouth, and Harleen felt his cronies eyes upon her, ever more uncomfortable. The Joker wasn't subtle in his threat, and smiled through many teeth with a grim satisfaction.

The dark of night descended upon the group, stood as silhouettes at the end of the long and crooked pier. Despite the twinkling stars in the sky, and the quiet quell of the river, Harleen was filled with an absolute dread. A dread she'd come to know, come to expect, come to almost want in the smallest and worst of ways. And Harleen nodded carefully at his words, torn. There wasn't going to be a way out of this, unless the Batman was to come barging through and pull her from the Joker's hold. Or the more likely option, that her only way to freedom was in the back of a hearse. Or maybe it would come to her, just like Eric's. And she turned away from the Joker, and threw her rose over the side, muttering a tiny and whispered, "amen."


	9. Chapter 9: The High Life

Harleen was armed with a mallet and a screwdriver, and she too, had now been at the safe and trying to crack it. It had been days since their drunken antics, days since the funeral, and there had been no sign since of a re-occurrence on both parts. It was all work and no play, as the Joker grew more and more frustrated with the uncrackable crate. Harleen drew a sleeve across her forehead, sweltering in the heat that beamed through the high windows of the warehouse.

If she was going to be staying, she may as well be useful, and after further decorating her little corner of the building, had set her sights on the useless, irretrievable loot. Keeping busy was Harleen's way of avoiding despair, and though she cried into her rough mattress every night before she slept, she faced each new day with a desperate bravery. The Joker appeared pleased with her acceptance and involvement, but currently glared from beneath the shade of a ridiculous sun hat, staring down with impatience at the task at hand.

Unlike his men, who had been back and forth with many attempts on opening the safe, the Joker instead, had not lifted a single pale finger. One harsh kick against the metal, followed by slurs, swears and a tantrum did **not** count. He slammed a cold bottle of Pepsi upon the safe instead, an ungracious offering to Harleen Quinzel.

"Thanks," she leant back to take a sip, parched by the heat. And squinting through the sunlight, scoffed at the brightly coloured swim shorts, the mismatched Hawaiian shirt and stupid floral hat that the Joker dressed in. He may have been a criminal, but this was a crime all of it's own. There was simply no excuse for the odd coloured socks-and-sandals fiasco he was currently sporting. It was undeniable now, the man was absolutely insane.

There was, however, something endearing about the Joker dressed up like a divorced father of five, that Harleen couldn't help but smile up at him from her seat before the safe. Despite the red split of a smile, a bone-white face, and the vibrant emerald hair, that was indeed, exactly how he looked. And there was something Harleen found comforting, something cute, about his image. Regardless of all that had been said and done between them, her fear of him, glaring or not, was waning thin as the days passed. It was hard, after all, to cower before a man in sandals.

"Fuck this," The Joker hissed agitated by both the heat and his own impatience, and charged off and away from her, shoes clack-clack-clacking as he stormed off in a huff. Harleen laughed, and turned back to her work, trying to chisel away at the elaborate and advanced locking devise.

There was a burning curiosity as she wiggled the screwdriver, tapping the end with the mallet. Carefully, somewhat precisely. A little excitement at the prospect of goodies inside. She'd cracked a few locks in her youth with bobby pins (granted, mostly her own home when she'd forgotten her keys after school) and there was something thrilling about this blatant theft she couldn't deny. What was inside? Who had the Joker stolen it from? She imagined all manner of handguns, of ammo boxes, money. Lots of money. There was an odd kind of glamour to the Joker's work that was surprisingly, undeniably alluring. The glamour of her life, before, had been different – it had been false and acted. But this, with her hands working till they ached, was very real. The stolen goods, whatever they were, were real, and the thrill was just as real too.

Her breath hitched in her chest as the screwdriver slipped and clicked against the inner bolt, and Harleen steadily inched the bar aside until the lock was opened. She swelled with pride to know she'd done it. "Mister J!" she called out, eyes wide and eager. "I got it open!" But before she could pry the safe, and rummage through it's contents, a low rumbling pulled her away. The sound of a struggling, whining engine. Tires crunching through the layers of dust. A horn blared, a high and irritating honking.

"MOVE IT OR LOSE IT!" yelled The Joker, from the cramped seat inside a one-man forklift. He was wild eyed, wildly dressed, knees up to his chin as he urged the machine onward, a manic glee spread across his features. Harleen had to throw herself aside to avoid an instant and unpleasant impaling. What the fuck was he doin'?!

And Harleen turned in enough time to watch the safe crushed and mangled against the wall by the incoming vehicle. Metal tearing metal, screeching and scraping along the concrete. The Joker bloodied his nose upon impact with the wheel of his ride. His legs and arms curled up and inward like a swatted spider. Money had burst out of the safe, and floated gently like feathers around them. The rest of the loot was scattered and pouring from the sharp and shattered metal.

Harleen hurried to the Joker's side, and helped him to untangle himself from the wreckage. He hooked an arm about her neck, and smiled with bloody nose and teeth at her, as she pulled him from the tight and tattered carriage. "See what I did there, Harls?" he laughed, opening his free hand to grasp limply at the falling dollars. "If you need something done, you got to do it yourself!" Harleen's brow furrowed at his words, but just hadn't the heart to tell him the safe had already been opened. Opened by her.

"That was real clever of you Mister J–" she replied, a little lackluster. But the Joker was too distracted to note the sarcasm in her tone. And slamming his stupid, sweaty brimmed hat upon her head, hurried over to his open prize. Prized wide open. Harleen sighed a lengthy sigh, and joined him by the collision.

* * *

Joker wasn't as interested in the scattered money as he knew what else resided in the safe, and clawing through the jagged holes, pulled out four hefty stacks of notes, two solid, heavy glowing gold bars, a handful of small and sparkling diamonds, and last but not least, the creme de la creme, a ruby the size of his fist. Harleen gasped at his side, eyes large and lustful at the impressive gathering of wealth. One of The Penguin's more generous reserves.

"Well, damn," she whispered, and she inched closer, their shoulders bumped and he turned to her quickly, a smile from ear to ear.

There was a great deal of garish gore and grievances in Joker's lifestyle, that were lavishly rewarded with exceptional gain. He could see from her expression, the way she stared unblinking at the ruby, that the misery of the previous week was far from her mind in this moment. And the glint from the jewel caught in her eyes.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, and Joker handed her the precious gem for a better view.

"It is," he said, just as quietly – and wasn't quite sure whether he was referencing to the ruby in the palm of her hand, or the delicate face that was admiring it. She was oblivious to his gaze, and felt as though he was looking at her for the very first time. She was just as much a dazzling dream, under his hat and glowing, as she had been on stage and lit up like a fairy in the night.

"Well since you've come into some cash–" she started, with the same energy and enthusiasm she'd shown him the time they'd shared breakfast, "I've got an idea!"

She thrust the ruby back into his hands, and hurried off towards Floyd, who was lounging on a scrapped sofa, flipping through colourful cartoons. Joker watched with a curiousness, her bubbly behaviour and animated expressions, as erratic and jovial as the television program behind her. "I need to borrow your phone!" He knew there was a creeping fondness for her growing in the pit of his heart. Something he needed to squash before it's inevitable escalation.

And she skipped back, phone in hand, grinning broadly and shuffled up next to him, offering Joker full view of the screen.

ｗｗｗ.ｇｏｔｈａｍｃｉｔｙｍａｌｌ.ｃｏｍ

She typed with long, gold fingernails, a tup tup tupping of the screen as she hurriedly and excitedly searched for brands upon brands of brilliant suits, shiny shoes, and sparkling accessories. She'd clearly had a lot of practice. "You need some new clothes," she told him, matter of factly, eyeing him over for size before adding item after item into the virtual basket.

He laughed, slightly offended, but mostly bemused by her statement, "What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?!"

His Harley Quinn scoffed, and she pointed to the hat upon her head, rolling her eyes "Quit jokin' around would ya'"

For once in his life, he hadn't actually been joking. But the fine suits, nice pants and big bold belt buckles caught his eye, and he too was suddenly also engrossed in the online shopping. Pointing to the clothing that most caught his eye. She was annoying, yes, and far too emotional for his refined tastes. But from her picks for his wardrobe, she certainly understood style and what it took to make a statement. He'd seen that from her at least. There were a few things to appreciate about Miss Quinzel. He could appreciate quite a bit, in fact.

Once Joker had finally got the hang of working the website, they both moved to sit at his tiny wooden table, him phone in hand, and Harleen, a cigarette propped up in her mouth, feet up and relaxed, counting what Joker was willing and waiting to spend. The final purchase he made however, while Harleen was distracted, wasn't a purchase he had made for himself.


	10. Chapter 10: The Gift

It was the second time Harleen had been ushered out of the warehouse, accompanied by the Joker, who was adamant in telling her she needed a breath of fresh air, save she goes crazy (his words, not hers.) The Joker had a lot of experience with creeping cabin fever, she supposed. Not to mention a whole lotta experience with crazy. And though hesitant at first – their last trip having ended with dumping a body – the Joker's jovial and encouraging tone, the whispered promise of a gift, a gift she'd like, had her trotting along with merriment to his car.

It was nice to be outside, in the cool night air, the final glimpse of the sunset having bled the sky mauve. To hear the sound of the waves gently lapping, and in the distance, heard the buzz of a waking city. Somewhere, out there, amongst the hustle and bustle of urban life, was Peyton Riley, parading upon a pedestal that had been destined for Harleen Quinzel. She gave a lengthy sigh and watched the darkening horizon.

"Ready to head out kid?"

The Joker was dressed to impress for their evening, Harleen noticed with a smile, and he pulled her, distractedly, from her pondering. Having eagerly, ecstatically arranged and contemplated outfit after outfit, he had sought Harleen's approval. Her online shopping had proved to be a hit with the clown prince, and he had picked from the many, many packages, a velour, purple tracksuit. Holographic, thick-tongued sneakers, and a single gold chain that hung at his stark chest.

"You look good," she'd said, offering words of encouragement after every change and alteration of costume. Harleen had never seen the Joker beam wider. And he did, in fact, look good. She shook her head of any more thoughts of that.

Claus was sat waiting for them at the wheel of a scratched and dented porshe. The giant albino, dressed for his role as chauffeur (hat included) was cramped up in the tiny chair, and had to inch further forward still, to allow room for the Joker's gangly legs. This time, the Joker decided to join Harleen in the back of the car, despite the little room they had. The way they all squeezed inside, it felt more like a clown car than that of a convertible.

A sudden nervousness crept over Harleen, of them sharing a more intimate space together. Despite him not having threatened her for a while, the Joker was still daunting, deadly, and up close, was even more so. The brilliance of his smile was as dangerous as his savage nature and as much as he was mad, he was equally as magnetising. Harleen shifted in her seat, hands at her knees and fumbling.

She caught herself, many a time, simply staring at the Joker, unawares as he watched from tinted windows, the steep towers and high rises that grew around them as they cruised towards the city. He was expressionless, eyes flitting the streets, the many faces and colours, deep in thought. What was he thinking about? As maniacal as he was, had been, Harleen couldn't see it in him then. What could possibly be going on in that head of his? Did she dare to wonder?

"There –" The Joker jammed his finger to the glass as they slowed in the busy traffic, so suddenly that it startled Harleen, and she squinted out towards what had grabbed his attention, his smile still wavering in the corner of her eyeline.

Clearly, Harleen had been too busy studying him to notice where they'd been headed, and recognised the location instantly. Theatre upon theatre, show upon show. Flurries of couples arm in arm wandered up and down the strip, ready for their night of entertainment. The white and red strobes burned brilliantly against the night, hoping to attract eager eyes. Smiles white, people dressed in their best, chattering silently, animatedly, happily, enjoying all that the Gotham streets had to offer them. And there – installed in bulbs above the entrance of a grand old building was a name that turned Harleen's stomach over.  
Peyton Riley stars in…

Her show. Peyton Riley starring in her show. Whatever small elation Harleen had felt, for being out of the warehouse and onto the night, shattered. It stung. Her eyes stung. And she swallowed hard, hands trembling in her lap. "Why are you showing me this?" her voice was far smaller and more wavering than she'd hoped and Harleen glared to keep back the tears that threatened to fall.

The Joker's grin faltered, and he tilted his head curiously, raising a brow, "are you crying?"

"No!" She bought her fists up to her eyes and rubbed them roughly, "I'm not!"

The Joker looked to the name up in lights (the wrong name!) and back to Harleen. "Are you pissed off?"

Well, obviously! She wasn't brave enough to retort – and feeling vulnerable, mostly hurt, simply turned away to her own window, to watch the passersbys unknowingly walk alongside the Joker's car and his hostage inside. To watch the world, from the outside looking in, how the city, her show, those people – none of it, nobody, had altered at all in her absence. Was this another one of the Joker's statements? "Is this my gift?" she wondered aloud, with a sinking and terrible sadness.

"What?"

She jolted as his fingers found her wrist, and Harleen fidgeted under his unblinking pale gaze. He didn't look angry at her question, but bewildered perhaps? He laughed and she flinched at the brashness of it. "Of course this isn't your gift!" he squeezed her arm. "I just thought you'd wanna see!"

See what exactly? Her life, her dream, stolen by the one person she had competed with constantly? The person who existed only to prove that Harleen Quinzel would never, ever, be good enough. Was he tryin' to be funny? "I get the feelin' you don't take girls out too much do ya Mister J?"

The graze of his hand was pulled away as quickly as it had crept up to her, and the Joker looked suddenly, genuinely, offended. His lips turned downwards, and he grimaced. "I'll have you know –" he pointed, and pointed, and pointed. "I'll have you know – they can't keep their claws off of me!" The Joker squeaked forward to reach the shoulder of his massive driver, both of them so squashed that only the thick leather seat separated the two. "Tell her Claus!"

Surprise, surprise! Claus said nothing.

"Sure," Harleen's eyes rolled, and she folded her arms, thoroughly unimpressed. If anyone was to be sitting in this car looking offended – it should be **her** , and not the Joker with his total lack of tact and empathy. "I'm sure they can't keep away," she huffed, "when you're holdin' 'em prisoner that is."

Apparently the Joker had another sight to show Harleen before the night was done and they drove the rest of the journey in awkward silence (save a few offended mutterings from the clown.) And though she still anticipated how the evening would end for her, Harleen refused to look in the Joker's direction. Instead, she stuck to staring intently out into the darkness, at the bright windows, tail lights and flashing signs. She could feel his eyes upon her, but did not once allow her hurt to overcome, and give him the satisfaction that he had somehow affected her. Harleen chewed at her lip to distract from crying, and sniffled to herself in the far corner of the car.

They drifted further and further from the loud, well lit parts of town, and through the underpasses, along backstreets. Here, the narrow roads were alight with orange and red hues, from small fires, street lights and less savoury attractions. These were far from the types of shows Harleen had offered a budding crowd, and women lingered corners popping gum, waiting patiently in the damp dark for their next client to cruise by flashing cash.

Harleen's eyebrow raised, and her nose crinkled. Harleen was no prude, but disliked the lack of glamour, the lack of class (lack of gorgeous clothes, jewellery, style) – not to mention the severe lack of hygiene! She hadn't fucked a pompous director in order to find herself dragged in these parts of town. She hadn't tapped her feet sore for it, nor sparkled sweetly before a loving crowd, to be bought this side of the city and have it called a gift. She finally turned to the Joker, who was busy on his cell. "Where are we going?" she asked, unable to disguise the frustration in her tone.

He looked up from his game of snake, "my place," he said plainly.

Harleen choked, "y–you're place?!"

* * *

Claus turned the corner and mounted the curb with a bump, knocking an unsuspecting Harleen up from her seat and half into Joker's lap. Her eyes snapped up to his, flashing both with a fury and alarm, and she yelled out angrily, "watch the road will ya?!" quickly withdrawing her arms from the cushion of his thighs. Joker watched, as surprised as she was, as Harleen threw herself back to other side of the ride. He was sure he'd seen her pale face flush, but it could have just as much been the reflection of the red neons, of all the GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS and XXX HERE. He could tell Harleen was fuming now, and her anger was no less than endearing. Regardless, Joker didn't have time to tease her further – as his club wound into view from the windscreen.

"Voila!" he told her, clicking his fingers, as they creeped into the tiny carpark out back, a big red flashing smile flickering, buzzing and sparking above the dingy block of dark and crumbling brick. GRIN N BARE IT – or what it should have been, if the ARE didn't hang awkwardly and unlit below.

"Grin n' bit?"

He cringed at her reading the damaged sign, and pinched the bridge of his nose with disdain.

"You live here?" Harleen sounded surprised – humoured, in fact.

Joker scoffed. What kind of man did Harleen take him for? Hadn't he proved, with his fashion, his intellect, his obvious, undeniable charm, that he would live someplace a little more upmarket than a battered nightclub?

"This is where I run a lot of my operations," Joker told her, as the car came to a halt. "It's a work in progress. Your gift is inside."

They each got out of the car – Joker taking Harleen's arm tightly in his grip, save she decided to make a run for it. He quickly came to realise how his hold on her was absolutely unnecessary. The location itself proved an escape deterant – and instead Harleen inched closer and closer against him, for safety away from the other unpleasant noises and activities unfolding around them. He smiled as she jumped at each angry shout, each sound of a bottle thrown, until she was practically in his arms and buried against his chest.

Unfortunately, the deterant only lasted until they reached the back door, where she suddenly stalled and jerked his arm. "I don't wanna go inside– please – I don't wanna go."

"I can't drag your present out here Harls," he reasoned, and tugged her gently. To his disappointment, she started shaking and blubbering. Oh no! Not again!

"You're gonna kill me inside aren't ya' this is where you bring people to kill them!? Please – don't – I don't wanna die here, please – it smells and it's ugly, and – and – and–"

"Jesus, Harls, relax, if I was gonna kill you, you'd know about it."

It seemed to help somewhat, slightly, and Harleen whimpered, "you mean it?"

"When I kill you, I'll let you know, I promise," and he sighed. He just wanted to get her inside, give her the present he'd been excited about ever since he'd got his men to track it down. "Chin up." Joker prompted her face forward with a finger, lifting her jaw and smiling.

It took a few moments of instructed breathing to get Harleen to enter the building, but eventually Joker won her over. It was that, or a loud bang from somewhere outside, that had her rushing, squealing through the open door. Whatever works! Joker shrugged.

Inside was dimly lit, and difficult to navigate, and Harleen latched onto Joker so tight he was sure she was crushing his ribcage. It wasn't dark for aesthetic reasons – not at all, he wasn't Crane – he was simply cheap when it came to responsible things, and couldn't remember the last time he'd had the bulbs cleaned, or changed. He probably should have thought of that before bringing her along. Still, it wasn't as though the nightclub was in any usable state – acting currently as hang out for him and his men, both for downtime and work time. He hadn't had the money (until Penguin's safe) to get it off the ground and open for business as he wanted.

They made their way to the bar, where a few of Joker's lackeys loitered, drinking, darts, and drowning their sorrows under the light of old, swinging lamps. It was smoggy inside, of stale cigars and the musty smell of spilt beer. He probably should have got the boys to clean before he'd dragged her this way. But he'd been too eager, too eager to show her what he'd purchased. He hoped she'd overlook the mess and instead see the potential.

He looked down to her pinned to his side, eyes wide and lower lip trembling, she held onto the back of his purple bomber with vice-like fists, as she took in her gloomy surroundings. This was far from what Miss Quinzel was used to, no doubt and as she surveyed her setting, his men surveyed them back. Joker noted the confusion, the shock in their expressions, to see Joker accompanied by a woman, wrapped so tight around his waist he was finding it a little hard to breathe.

"Loosen up a little–" he told her, laughing lightly as he tried to pry her tiny hands apart. Not in front of the boys.

They walked into the main area, the large, open floor plan front of house, guiding Harleen to where her present was situated, beside the large marble bar, well stocked with all manner of beverages. It stood around 5' tall, dark and quiet, round-edged and ominous beneath reams and reams of multicoloured ribbon, tied off with one big red bow.

"Go on, open it!"

Predictably, Harleen was hesitant, and lingered by the object, flicking the tag that read in bold, black scrawl Harley Quinn, let's call this your rehearsal, J. She looked back at him, gold fingernails grazing the edges of the label. And then to the red bow, pulling loose the knot that held it all together. She winced, as though expecting it to go BANG – and when it didn't, began work on the individual ribbons. Having revealed only a small portion of the mysterious present, it was though a coin had dropped, and after seeing the glass front, Harleen began tearing at the elaborate wrapping with some haste.

She stripped from the top and centre, until a vintage jukebox was revealed to the room, and Joker, leaning casually at his bar, noticed her eyes widen and a small, fleeting moment of glee flashed across her soft face.

"There's some good tracks on this one Harls! Picked it out myself," Joker told her proudly, and clicked obnoxiously at the thug-playing-barman. "Give the girl some money would ya'?!"

A handful of pocket change was thrust across the bar, and Harleen hurried to pick it up. She struggled, for an adorable moment, to pick the coins from the surface, and cursed quietly to herself and her plastic nails. With an open palm she brushed the shrapnel into her hand, and turned back to her jukebox excitedly. She was quick to plug it in, and immediately the lights lit up her ecstatic expression. Green, and red and white and humming, it thrummed to life and drew attention from all eyes in the room. Much like it's new owner. And Harleen clapped her hands, tiny hops on the spot, "it's amazin' Mista' J," she squeaked.


	11. Chapter 11: The Audition

The dingy club sprung to life the moment Harleen placed the first few coins into the jukebox machine, and though her eyes were fixed upon the bright light-up musical box before her, she could feel their stares from across the room. But it didn't matter. The gift had wilted away her fears from before, and Harleen selected the first song that caught her eye, pushing buttons excitedly. Something from none other than Dean Martin. _Push_. Harleen had noted how all the songs were either big band or musical based and for a jukebox it had a very unique selection of tunes. She couldn't help but wonder if this had been a deliberate choice on the Joker's part. So he was psychotic - but _thoughtful_. She shrugged her thoughts aside, the happiest she'd been in weeks, or had it been _months_? This wasn't topping the moment she'd been showered with flowers upon her stage, but it was certainly _up there_. No one had ever given her a present like this, one that matched her personality - one that had clearly been so carefully considered. With a hand pressed at her mouth - the music, the smooth voice crackling from the speakers - Harleen hid a wavering smile.

"You like it?" The Joker bumped her shoulder roughly and a few coins tinkled onto the hardwood dancefloor.

"I _love_ it -" Harleen whispered, confused - _flattered_ \- overwhelmed. What did all of this mean? The Joker she knew, from the television and the newspapers, was a chaos causing clown, inexplicably cold, callous and cruel. Whose laugh was high and manic, smile wide and wicked. And sure, she'd been introduced to _that side_ of The Joker the moment he'd chosen to target her. But what was this - _buttering up?_ _ **Harley Quinn, let's call this your audition, J**_ "Audition for _what_?" she asked him eyes squinting as she held the tag and tapped it. As much as Harleen appreciated the gesture (truly) what was his intention? For a heart fluttering moment - she had some idea.

A thin finger pulled at the loose collar of his t-shirt, to scratch at his jutting collarbone. "I'm glad you asked," he didn't look glad - he looked _nervous_. "I've got a proposition for you Miss Quinn." The Joker took one of the last remaining coins from her palm and changed the song (but not the artist.) Harleen's heart stammered as The Joker then took her arm and pulled her towards an old and broken booth to the side.

"A proposition f-for _me_?!" her voice high and hitched with surprise.

She stared unblinking at his face, at how close The Joker stood. With the gentle strumming of guitars - the silky voice that sounded from the jukebox - did she lean in further? Her heart beat aggressively within her chest. Was this going where it felt like it was? She'd spent some of her late teens, much longer ago than she'd ever admit, squished into booths and kissed with fervour. The Joker's hot breath was at her ear as he weaved her in against the table. She didn't have time to think much of what was happening, how or why. Just that it _was_ and that she didn't mind. She didn't even mind the thick layer of dust on the table, the sticky patches of spilt alcohol. The men lingering in the shadows of their dark and deteriorated backdrop. She reached for the zipper of his purple tracksuit, and opened her mouth a little for him, an invitation. The way she knew best to handle auditions.

It was then, that she was tossed unceremoniously into the seat opposite the Joker, and any heady thoughts were jolted from her mind. _Oh!_ Worst of all, the Joker hadn't even _noticed_. And he slid into his seat completely unperturbed. "Since you're going to be with us for a while, kid," he started, hands clasped, grin wide - completely _oblivious_ as he sat conducting his interview. "I figured I could use your help."

Harleen sank back into the seat, this hadn't been what she was expecting. Not at all. "What _kind_ of help?" What could The Joker want with budding actress Harleen Quinzel? What could she possibly offer him that he didn't already have, and couldn't already _steal_? He'd stolen her shot from her, what else could she do for him _now_? Especially since he wasn't interested - or even _realised_ \- what else she was good to offer. _Rude!_

"Well, there's a few things," his grin turned into a sheepish smile. "But before you cry, yell or scream again could I just -"

"Hey!" How dare he describe her _so accurately!_

The Joker raised his hand to silence her protest and Harleen slumped even further into the booth, sullen, arms folded tight against her chest.

"I like what you've been doing with the warehouse," he said, eyes wandering out towards the bar and beyond, avoiding her glare. "And I was wondering, _just an idea_ , how you'd feel about helping us get this placed spruced up and open for business?" He shrugged it off. "You'll be rewarded, of course -"

"Freedom?" it was the first word out of Harleen's mouth, and a pang of guilt twanged her heart as the Joker's smile faltered.

"Not _that_ ," he said, and it took a moment but his grin returned. _False_. Leaning over the table between them, the Joker pressed the tip of his finger to her nose. "I've got better plans in mind for _you_."

The nightclub was derelict. Bought on the cheap and left to rot. Harleen could see where the Joker had attempted to add his flair and had failed. There were old, creepy vintage circus posters now peeling from the walls, all smudged and stained by smoke. All manner of odd toys, props and costumes were either pinned to the wall, or dotted amongst the shelves and spaces, peeking out from behind bottles and glasses. The ceilings were low but the potential was high. And with some elbow grease, Harleen could definitely see this place working out for the Joker. It was a small, inclusive and intimate setting, all it needed was a fresh lick of style. The jukebox alone had already helped with the atmosphere tenfold.

"Do I even have a choice?"

* * *

Good, good, _good_ , good, **good** question. Did she have a choice? That she did _not_. "I already told you," he chuckled, propped up on his bony arms. "I'm not letting you go." Though he had in a way, _his way_ , given her a choice. Live out as his hostage, miserable and moping, or move on and make something of herself among him and his men. "Well, what d'ya say Harls?" He'd never once extended a hand like this and he wondered, briefly, why she wasn't happier about it. It surprised even Joker how long she'd lasted in his company thus far, with her constant mood swings, _crying,_ and challenging his patience. There was just something about Harleen Quinzel that he wanted to keep, despite all of her misgivings.

"Fine."

She wasn't fine, that was certain. Her arms crossed, her legs crossed, her eyes cast downward, not even a hint of a _smile_. Joker might not be an expert on women (he'd never tell _her_ that) but he wasn't stupid. His harlequin was _pissed_ indeed. He had hoped the jukebox would have quelled the attitude. Apparently _not!_ "Come on, Harls, I thought you'd _want_ to add some flavour to the place?"

"Oh, _yeah_ ," she laughed now, loudly, drawing attention from his guys to their booth, and Harleen, just as loudly, announced, "ya' know what? Ever since I was little, all I could ever dream about - all I ever _wanted_ , was to wind up in this _dump_ , as Mista' J's _slave_! HA _HA_ HA!"

 _Jesus!_ Joker raised his hands, laughing along awkwardly, "hey, hey, _HEY!_ Let's not give 'em t _he wrong impression_ here -" he could see his lackeys, shaking their heads, hear them clicking their tongues. What must they think of him?! " Now, that's _not_ what I said!"

"Sure it ain't," she huffed, "kinda convenient ain't it, how you stole me away and now want me _clean_ \- do ya' get your _guy_ prisoners doin' this I wonder?!"

"I don't _have_ any guy prisoners! What are you - wait - _no_ -" He wasn't going to go there. Nope. _No way._ That hadn't been what he'd meant. At _all_. He'd wanted to help her feel part of the show, but what was the point? He'd hoped she'd been flattered by it - not offended! With the way her eyes sparkled when she'd seen the ruby. The way they'd glistened at the sight of the jukebox. Why did she have to be so _difficult_? "I thought you'd want to throw in your piece!" he exclaimed, confused, annoyed, bewildered.

"What I want is to -"

Splayed hands slammed against their table, knocking both Joker and Harleen back from their awkward confrontation. And Floyd stood before them, mask-raised and perched upon his head to reveal the sweating, black haired, black-eyed man beneath. "Jay," he heaved, rasping for breath. "Things are _bad_ , man. I came as quick as I could."

Joker frowned. What _now?_ With a scorned woman opposite, and a frantic thug at his side, what _else_ could possibly be going wrong for him? "Hit me," he said, the lack of enthusiasm offered was award-winning.

"It's Cobblepot," Floyd replied, "he wants you fuckin' _dead_ man - _dead_ dead - he's put some seriously pretty price on your head for what you've taken. Fuck, even _I_ was tempted boss," he raised his hands, "just sayin', no offence, ya' know I love ya'."

Joker caught Harleen's expression, fright had replaced her frustration, and her lip trembled, looking back from Floyd to Joker, Joker to Floyd. He wanted to tell her, _kid, don't worry, everyone wants to kill me, all of the time_ , but he didn't think somehow, it would help calm her nerves. Joker sighed, pulling hands through his hair and gripping tight on the ends. Damn Oswald and his bottomless bank account. All of Gotham's finest fuck-ups would be fighting for him now and like he had _time_ for that!

"Everyone's talkin' about it, everyone's _interested_ , hell, Jay you gotta _lotta_ enemies, an' half of 'em are broke ass bitches too!"

Well, this had gone _swimmingly_. "Wonderful!" Joker clapped his hands and stood abruptly. Both Harleen and Floyd flinched. "Take her to get an icecream or somethin' I'll have to speak to the boys," and he clicked his fingers, dismissing them both.

Before Floyd could take Harleen's arm and lead her from the club, Joker grabbed her instead and growled at them both. "You lose her Floyd, I kill you." His eyes met with Harleen's, who flitted his features fearfully. "You _let him_ lose you, I kill him. We good?" She nodded frantically, and slipped from his grip. He let her go. Something knotted in his stomach to watch them leave together, but he couldn't have her sitting pretty here, not _now_.

It had been a while since Joker had dabbled in any kind of turf war in the city - he had, for a time, focused his efforts on garnering solely the attention of the Batman instead. That bothering other kingpins (who was he kidding, there was only one _king_ ) only complicated matters between himself and the big, black Bat. That he'd stepped aside for the most part, causing chaos in Gotham city for chaos' sake, over reigning in his criminal empire. It _showed_. Just looking at his torn-up club, it showed. At his near-on empty warehouse - his bare reserves and battered wardrobe. Perhaps going head to head with Penguin was the next big thing Joker needed, to reinstate himself as top dog. If the city had fallen for his Harley Quinn over the clown prince himself, he really had let himself go… Maybe she hadn't been solely to blame for their lack of interest… Well, fuck.

Addressing the men came with mixed reviews. Some were eager and antsy to get back to the streets and squash the nearing competition. Others sighed and complained. They'd grown so complacent, so _cocky_. How had this happened right under his nose? The smaller circle were still good-as-gold, but the rest? _Useless._ He wasn't going to die by Penguin's hand ( _good joke!_ ) or any of the other numbskulls tempted by the hefty bounty. Joker was clear that their corpses would litter the streets if they'd be stupid enough, that he'd climb their cadavers all the way to the top, where only _one_ belonged. Any guesses?

Plans took hours to discuss and Joker didn't leave Grin N' Bare It until the early hours of the morning, where his car and Claus waited patiently outside for him. Harleen had been placed in the back seat, and was shivering in her sleep against the cold leather. The night had been ruined, and not just for _her_. Clambering in himself, Harleen was quick to latch onto whatever was warmest - and in her sleeping state took up all but the tiniest sliver of space, where Joker was seated, crushed up at the window. Her head nuzzled his shoulder, and she snored loudly in his ear. Just when he'd been certain she couldn't get any more annoying, she never ceased to disappoint. But as disgruntled as Joker was, he saw the humour in it.

"Get us home," he told Claus quietly, and the ignition started and sped them into the night.


	12. Chapter 12: Ready for the Shoot

Work needed to be done, not just back at the club, but all over. Even the warehouse was no longer serving as Harley Quinn's empty prison and instead had become a hub of criminal activity overnight. There were men counting money, cleaning guns or clearing way for crates of weapons, explosives, you name it, J bought it! Some were masked, some costumed, and some were simply not. It had been a long time since Joker had seen his men work like this. Just how long exactly had he been set on the Bat? How long had it been since he'd had his men do much of anything save for drive him around or collect his laundry? He couldn't tell. Despite Joker's neglect of them, they all came running. One drop of a text (and a lot of emojis) had them hammering on the tin shutters, ready for whatever Joker had in mind for them, no matter the hour.

 **heard sum BAD NEWS! :^o**

 **warehouse block17 URGENT! :^( :'^( :^(**

 **J**

Joker had immediately set out with positive action upon leaving Grin N Bare It, and though tired, dark rings beneath his eyes, had worked long through the night alongside his recently gathered posse. He needed to start pulling taut on the strings of his operations, if they were to go head to head with Gotham's wealthiest madman. And that was exactly what he was going to do. The Penguin may be stacked with cash, but he was simply no competition for the clown. That, he'd make certain. Joker may have gone a little overboard on the BANGERS! but he was sure to put them to good use. Oswald was gonna get it so hard, his frail, flaking granny Cobblepot sippin' tea all the way back in England was gonna hear him **POP!**

Crates upon crates of dynamite were being dragged into storage by disgruntled goons dressed like big, fuzzy disney icons. They weren't all too impressed with their exceptionally hot and heavy work (no thanks to Joker, who had crashed the forklift) but they didn't complain too loudly in his presence. It wasn't for him that they hushed their voices though, but for Quinn, who still snored soundly on her mattress, blanket at her ankles and curled up like a kitten.

She'd woken up once yelling, "would'ya keep yer noise down ?!" And Joker had protested that it was 11am (a more than reasonable time to be awake!) to which he got an angry, snapping and snarling response, "so what ?!" Since when did Harley get off telling him what to do? Had she forgotten who the hell he was?! Regardless, they softened their steps and lowered their voices, save she wake up and scream at them some more. He admired her gall, he'd give her that .

A hot afternoon had turned the warehouse into a greenhouse – and the climbing heat had eventually woken Harley naturally. Must be exhausting , after all. Being chauffeured around, offered gifts, taken to new and exciting places… What a terribly hard life his harlequin led. And he watched, a tad jealous, as Floyd brought to her some breakfast and a steaming cup of coffee. He was the prince here, was he not? Where was his royal treatment? Though Joker said nothing, save she fly off the handle. Again.

"I've got something for you to do today," he told her sternly, approaching the little blonde who sat cross-legged at her bed, a bowl balanced precariously in her lap. She looked up from her food, mouth slack, cheerios slipping back into the milk off the end of her spoon.

""Want me to dust ya' shelves, Mister J?!"

Was she still mad about yesterday?! And people said he held onto grudges. Christ! "No - I've got something else we can do. I gotta prepare you, kid, if we're gonna have Penguin and his army knocking at our door."

Harley frowned, unconvinced.

"If you think I'm bad, you're not gonna want Cobblepot getting a hold of you." He jutted a finger down at her, jaw tightened at the briefest thought of that. Oswald loved women, in the way that Joker loved his cars, his sneakers and loved his collectables. Sometimes they got damaged, sometimes they broke, and sometimes they were smashed beyond any saveable state. Cobblepot would undoubtedly have that certain kind of love for Joker's Harley Quinn too. Over his, her and everyone's dead body was that ever, ever going to happen!

"Are you threatenin' me?" she asked thickly through a mouthful of cereal.

Woman! " **No!** " Hell, maybe he would just hand her over to the Penguin - it'd certainly teach her some manners. He was sure she'd come running back to him crying, apologising. She'd show some respect for The Joker then, wouldn't she? She'd be grateful then, of how he'd cared for her. Of how he had fed and clothed and accompanied her. But his anger could not linger at that level, and the thought of her in the arms of Oswald made him nauseous. His stomach twisted at a single straying thought of it. Was he going soft? Surely not. Then what was wrong with him?

" Alright , don't bite my head off, what do yer want me to do?"

He'd let her wash and get changed (that took two long hours!) brush her teeth and comb her hair. There was no rushing her, as Harley seemed to draw out every task with deliberate pace. Maybe it wasn't deliberate - Joker had never been known for his patience . But he sat waiting, humming, whistling, fidgeting for her at the large garage doors, that opened out to a view of the cityscape beyond the water. His men got ready for the activity also, having set up something of an assault course, dragged pallets, driftwood and rusty old barrels up onto the pavement. They all donned the same matching white coats, codpieces secured, much to their chagrin. They'd regret it if they didn't have 'em - he'd told them only once.

* * *

It was still pleasantly warm in the time Harleen came to join the party, held just outside the warehouse, and her sudden reappearance had a grin split the Joker's features in two. She squinted through the sunlight at his blazen, white face, and too, smiled briefly back at him. She had been under the impression that they were headed back to the club, and was surprised to see the crude assault course built-up before her. Unlike a lot of the Joker's ideas, this one, surprisingly, didn't fill her with dread, and she laughed at the lackey's who lingered by their makeshift creation. "For me?" she said, a delicate hand against a little chest, "oh, you shouldn't have!" No - really, you shouldn't . But before she could turn around and back into the shade, the Joker was upon her beaming broadly.

"How about a little game, Harls?"

He hoisted, without prior warning, a fat, heavy pistol to her forehead, his face all teeth and gnashing. Harleen froze up where she stood, her skin prickled, she no longer felt the warmth of the sun. Was today the day - the day he had promised her ? Perhaps Harleen had pushed her luck too far this time - she had grown stupid and reckless. She'd always been reckless! Was it much of a surprise anymore that she stood at barrel end of a gun? Before her brain could even process the thought of the end , the final curtain - The Joker flipped the pistol, and turned it on it's head, the barrel nestled in his palm and offering her the grip of the weapon.

"Go on, take it." He didn't look as sinister, now that the pistol was aimed in the opposite direction, and timidly Harleen wound her hand about the gun. Their fingers touched for all but a moment, and both recoiled quickly from the contact as though it burned.

The Joker cleared his throat and turned away from her, gesturing broadly at his men dotted across the course. "You know what to do boys!" And Harleen watched as they came to life - began running up and down, left and right, amongst the assorted scrap they'd assembled. They were a living-breathing giant version of a carnival stall, of targets darting to and fro. And it dawned on her then, why she was holding the gun. Where she'd normally point her plastic pistol and squirt water at their chests, this wasn't water she'd be firing their way. Yeesh!

"I don't wanna -"

"Just pull the trigger!" The Joker cut her off quickly, clearly having anticipated this reaction from her. It wasn't predictability, just plain common sense .

And Harleen couldn't do it. She raised the gun with shaking hands, stared down the barrel of the gun at the goons below, all rushing away from the point of the pistol. She couldn't do it. Her eyes wavered, wet with tears. They didn't even seem frightened at the prospect of her pulling the trigger. The Joker's hand was at her waist and holding her place. "I can't - " she squeaked. "Don't make me do this -"

"Trust me!" His palm didn't linger at her hip though, and trailed up to the gun, where he steadied her trembling arms, chin hooked at her shoulder. The fluttering touch of his hands left a trail of cold, and his finger flattened against hers. Before she could protest, before she could pull herself from his arms - before she could even react to what she knew was coming. He held his breath and squeezed .

 **!**

Her breath left her lungs so rapidly, stars scattered her vision and her ears rang with white noise. Harleen hadn't even the air to sob or make a sound - but as her sight returned to focus, she looked out with horror at the scene ahead. And there stood the random lackey she'd aimed at, waving with a grin on his face. "Wait - what !?"

"It's paint."

And so it was . Red paint smattered the white chest of the man's overalls. And the Joker prompted her again to steady - aim - fire! Green paint, blue paint - miss! - Yellow, pink and orange. Without the Joker's direction, she was useless , and watching her moving targets stumble and slip in all the scattered paint had her giggling girlishly. The Joker watched with an unusually serious expression, which made Harleen laugh only harder. "I'm doin' it, watch !" she bleated, having shot - accidentally - a goon in the eye, who without goggles howled and flailed. Her laugh was a high and cracking SCREECH at this, and tears wound their way down her face in hysterics.

The men were growing tired, their pace slowing to near enough a stop. They were getting pelted by paint no matter how terrible Harleen's aim - and she huffed at their lack of enthusiasm. She had been - could she believe it - having fun ! She whined at them weakly, "keep runnin' I'm just about to get good ." But they hadn't the energy left to give.

"You heard the lady!" hollered the Joker, and she smiled (despite herself) at his backing. "Look alive or it'll be the last time you do!" And Joker pulled another pistol from his jacket and fired himself a shot. Now that wasn't paint ! The lackey screamed this time, face smeared with paint, knee blown wide open, a red and cavernous hole where bone should've been. And as terrible, horrific, dreadful as it was - Harleen laughed. Oh God!

At the Joker's command, threat, severe warning , the living target's found a new lease of life, adrenaline giving them that extra speed and energy to really add to the challenge. "After you," the Joker said, and Harleen was delighted to see the improvement. Over the wailing cries of his goon, fired again and again into the brightly coloured mess.

* * *

 **A/N** : I update on other fanfiction sites more frequently than here as I find ff quite complicated (I'm hopeless!) Those of you that use tumblr, come and say hi - find me at .com :^)


	13. Chapter 13: Nightlife

They'd been back and forth from Grin n' Bare It for a little over a week and it had remained unsaid whether Harleen had accepted the Joker's proposal to get the building into better shape or not. Yet, there she was, directing his various henchmen in painting, taking old furniture to scrap, browsing new furniture, choosing from the many patterned rolls of wallpaper, once there and amongst the work, she hadn't been able to resist adding her touch to the place. She'd thrown on a heavy leather apron (courtesy of J) to protect her velvet skirt and starch white tee, and had taken to delightfully tearing down the many hideous circus and clown posters that had been plastered previously to the walls. She was eager and enthusiastic to rid his club of it's serious case of ugly - all the while, the Joker surveyed her efforts from a distance with a twinkling smile on his face.

The jukebox was in constant use, and played crisp music to the men busying themselves with decoration, it was it's own messy musical and Harleen stood back to appreciate the gradual transformations. They'd stripped out the old, tired chairs and cushions, replaced all the dark and dingy wood with sleek and shiny chrome. Velvet, furs and satin upholstered the stools and booths, all reds and greens and golds. Zebra-print wallpaper took up half of the walls, and covered completely the nicotine-stained paint of before. Harleen had been somewhat surprised at how much the Joker wanted, and was excited for this change. She figured, from his appearance prior to her intervention - and from the warehouse and then the club - that he simply didn't care much about his image. It was the Joker after all, the man more often seen covered in soot, clothes torn, singed or splattered with blood and shaking with rage, hysterics - or both. Harleen assumed it didn't really matter how he presented himself, he was still the criminal king of Gotham city regardless of how he dressed or decorated. That said, it was even stranger, surreal for Harleen to witness this very same man mulling over colour schemes and carpet samples perched upon a brand-spanking-new, pink chaise lounge.

"Harley!" The Joker's sharp voice snapped Harleen from her senses and she realised he must have caught her staring at him. Again. "Don't just stand there, you're making the joint look untidy," he laughed at his own joke. "Come over here and sit with me!"

Harleen couldn't help but smile at the Joker patting insistently at the seat beside him, and obeyed his request without question, though leaving a little safe space between the two of them, just in case. The Joker didn't seem to care (or even notice) either way, and pulled an old, fraying purple gym bag from underneath, dumping it casually into her lap. Harleen jolted at the weight of it hitting her thighs. "What's that?" she asked - raising her hands away from it the moment she spotted the brown stains of old blood. "Ew!" She squirmed, now pinned to the seat by it - thankful to still be wearing his hideous apron.

The Joker ignored her dramatics and she caught the briefest glimpse of him rolling his eyes and sighing. "Hey-" she whined at his reaction, after all, she could hardly be blamed for it. How had he expected her to react? Oh, Mister J - I wonder what's inside, oh, I'm so excited! I can't wait to get my hands all over this filthy thing! Her eyes narrowed at the clown suspiciously.

"Don't worry about that," The Joker told her quickly, licking the edge of the carpet sample to then scrub vigorously at the stains on the bag - "it's nothing to worry about." Right, blood - nothing to worry about. Harleen frowned, puzzled - but mostly squeamish. Her lip curled at him attempting to clean it - and just as he was about to bring the little swatch of carpet back to his mouth and try again, she grabbed at his wrist and stopped him.

"It's fine!" she said shrilly - "I think you got it all!"

His brow twitched in a brief show of confusion, but the Joker complied, and smiling warmly at her then, he stood. "C'mon Harls, bring the gear, I've got something to show you!"

Maybe she should have let him continue his gross attempt at removing the blood, since it was she who was to drag the bag wherever he wanted. Harleen cringed the moment she pulled on the handle and stood to join him. It was heavier than she expected it to be, tripping, Harleen struggled to pull it forward, hooking the strap over her shoulder to try and distribute some of the weight and panting. "Is it far?" she squeaked - complaining in rapid grumbles under her breath. Why couldn't he carry it?!

The Joker ignored her question - and all of her other, increasingly loud complaints, whistling as they took two staircases and up into the attic extension of the nightclub. These back rooms and floors had yet to be repaired or redecorated, and Harleen had to step with extra caution, over splintered wood and lumps of fallen plaster. "Where are we goin'?!" she asked again, careful not to plummet to her death down the narrow flight of stairs.

"My office! Or what will be my office," The Joker announced proudly, and he stopped at the door without warning. Harleen slammed into his back and swayed dangerously on her feet, having to grip tightly at his waist to avoid losing her footing and tumbling downward.

"I know it's exciting!" the Joker beamed, laughing - mistaking her action of desperation for something else. Harleen sighed. "But you've not seen nothin' yet!"

Harleen was distracted from her disdain as soon as they entered, to fall upon the decor of the Joker's office. She realised then, in the time he'd been absent downstairs, he must have been working on his own private space above them. Harleen's anger subsided with surprise, and she admired his own handiwork. There were cabinets full of various drinks, pretty and unique bottles lined the shelves inside, displayed like expensive cologne rather than somethin' just to get smashed on. He had a wardrobe, a desk - all stained in black - a plush red carpet and leopard-print paper he'd took to adding to since they were marked and littered with splashed paint from his own hand, of smiley faces, J's and toothy grins. This paint was illuminated by a black light above the door, and even the accidental speckles and splatter that marred the rich woodwork looked good.

"I like it!" she exclaimed her encouragement, heaving the bag up and onto his desk to relieve herself of it finally.

"That's not all!" The Joker replied, obviously pleased at her approval, and drew Harleen's attention to a covered canvas on the wall. A white sheet had been stuffed at the corners to hold it in place and protect it. Harleen's curiosity was piqued. "It's for you," he told her, and Harleen was already buzzing with hidden excitement at the thought of another gift from J. The jukebox had been one of the most wonderful and well-thought out presents she'd ever received, so she had high hopes for this other.

She hurried over and took a fistful of the cover, stripping it off to be assaulted by an image of pink, and blonde and deep, deep red. Harleen's stomach writhed in an ebbing rage at the poster in front of her. A spread of Peyton Riley, half nude, her delicately tipped red nails covered the tips of her breasts as she pushed them together, a vibrant pout, with matching vibrant lace panties - all Harleen could see, was red. "The fuck is this!?" her voice broke in her anger, smarting at the painful pang of unpleasant and sickening jealousy. And it wasn't the jealousy she'd grown used to when around Peyton Riley. It was intense and nauseating to know even the Joker, HER captor, had this harlot hung up on his office wall. "Is this some kind of sick joke?!" Harleen snapped, pulling her face from Peyton's generous assets to glare at him. If so, it wasn't remotely funny.

"Nope!" he said simply, which only infuriated her further. "It's better!" and he giggled as he headed to the other side of his desk, pushing the bag she'd dumped towards her. "Open up!" The Joker was far too happy for Harleen to deal with right now, and she swallowed hard on tears that welled in her throat. Why did he do this? She unzipped the bag with little enthusiasm, sure to find some other insulting and humiliating gift - but quickly discovered the bag was bursting full of knives and other various sharp instruments. Scalpels, switchblades, steak knives, serrated, barbed, even a pizza cutter and potato peeler were among the collection.

"You've tried your hand at the guns, so why not knives?" The Joker asked, and pointed to the Peyton poster, grinning. "Tadaa! Target practice. Or as I like to call it, motivation." Was he on her side in this?

Somehow, his words made the situation a little brighter, and Harleen sniffled through a smile, watching patiently as the Joker began to pull out and arrange a handful of the weapons (a butter knife too?) on the desk. He hummed along to himself as he quietly worked, until he was satisfied with the selection and display. His hands flitted to the blades and handles, as though tempted to take one for himself. Instead, he found Harleen, and had her pick from them in his place.

Harleen was about as good as throwing knives as she was good at shooting. Her aim wasn't great - and it took many, many, many attempts before she'd even landed a single blade. It hadn't sunk into the poster, but had given Riley's chest a little nick, right about where her heart would be. The Joker, despite her disastrous practice session, had been nothing but encouraging. Sometimes, a little too encouraging - when he'd donned a high and girlish mocking voice - what she was supposed to believe was Peyton, as he'd teased superiority. "Oh, Harleeeeeeen - aren't I fabulous? As you can see I'm practically mourning your absence!" Surprisingly, his ridiculous antics actually helped and it wasn't long before Harleen was giggling at his over-the-top play-acting. It was almost endearing.

But they grew tired of the game, of the near-misses and close-calls, the Joker led Harleen back down to the club, where they settled at the huge bonfire his men had lit in the car-park, burning all the scrap and damaged interior they'd dragged from the building to make way for the new. The smell of molten plastic seared her lungs, but Claus, with a tray of hot chocolate, was quick to distract them from their choking. Mug in hand, Harleen stood before the consuming flames alongside the Joker, warmed both on the outside and in. His thugs joined them, chatting quietly amongst themselves, passing roasted (most likely now toxic marshmallows) and drinking deep from cups of cocoa.

* * *

They sat on a tire together, one of the last remaining items left for his thugs to burn, and the flames lit up her face and flickered in her shining eyes, cheeks flushed pink against the heat of the blaze. Little lips at the rim of her mug and smiling to herself at the burning debris. He watched her at his shoulder, eyes fluttering with tiredness - occasionally jolting as her nose dipped into the cream, and rubbing it furiously. Joker smiled. He was beginning to like Harley, and like her a lot. His chest felt warm, but was that the fire? She was annoying, sensitive, emotional, sure but Joker couldn't help but appreciate, since coming to know, the very raw and very realness of her character. Gotham would have loved her, had he given them the chance - and Harley would have gotten the love that she so desperately wanted in return. There's still time for that, he thought. "C'mon, Harls, let's go home."

Joker said quick and curt goodbyes to his men, leaving them to carry on with work at Grin N Bare It into the night. Joker, typically, would have stayed, been sleepless, and suffered for it in the days to come, but couldn't. He had a little harlequin to take home and put to bed, her eyes heavy with the nagging need to sleep, he guided her gently into the passenger seat of his car, carefully tugging the cup from her hands and returning it to Claus for safekeeping.

"Bye, guys!" Harley waved out the window at the remaining goons, and they waved right back at her, "see ya' later!"

Joker hopped behind the wheel, and was quick to get the car on the road, he pulled out of the car-park and onto the neon street, all bright, from the strip of clubs, arcades and liquor stores, reds and orange and deep royal blues, bouncing off the damp cobblestones and lighting their way home. He caught Harley watching from her window, the world pass them by, a blur of multicolour madness. East Gotham had its charms, and this was certainly one of them. The moon was just as bright, and hung in the sky beside the vibrant yellow bat signal, illuminating the clouds. Gotham truly came alive at night, when the Bat came a-hunting - and Joker sensed the quiet hum of life, it lingered thickly in the cool air.

Harley's breathing grew heavy, and Joker flitted his gaze across to the blonde in his company. Her head was propped up by the window, a breeze blowing the hair off her face as she slept. The sights, colours and sounds had lulled her into dreams, and Joker felt himself relax at her softly snoring. It had been a long time since he'd just sat back and cruised slow through the city he loved. For so long now, he'd played chase-me with the Bat, so consumed with their games that he had grown distant to Gotham itself. He would never, could never, feel like a stranger here - but he did feel a little strange , nonetheless.

Joker turned to Harley once more, just to check - and pulled her skirt down to cover her thighs. She was cool to his touch and he recoiled quickly at the slightest brush of her skin. His abdomen clenched as she shifted in her slumber, and spoke to him quietly in gibberish.

 **! ! !**

A blast, loud as a gun at his ear, sent Joker, the car and all of it's contents rocketing forward and firing off down the street, spinning and skidding, burning rubber billowed steam as he slammed a foot on the brakes. He flew into a lamppost, the impact tore through the bonnet and ripped his ride in two. Pain exploded, blinding, behind his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his teeth, as he violently headbutted the wheel. Fuck - He was deafened, ears buzzing, sight scattered, a high ringing droned in his head like Arkham's alarms, and he groaned through the pain that twanged at various parts of his body.

As his mind sought clarity, Joker came to realise the high screech in his ear was no alarm at all. It was Harley, and she was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And it just didn't stop. He could barely move his neck, a mouth full of blood he couldn't even taste. He reached out to her, choking and felt her hands grab at his roughly. Her screaming stopped and she spoke at him so frantically, he lost track of her words. "Please - please wake up! Mista' J please - you have ta' wake up!"

Joker smiled through spit at her as she came into view. He heard the click of his seatbelt, and her presence at his side and shoving. He could feel her fingers squeezing his palm, over and over. "Stay with me!" Harley told him, voice high and shaky. "You gotta get up! Quick!" She was crying. Well, typical. He scoffed through the blood that dribbled from his nose and lips.

"There are people comin' over! I think they hit us!"

Harley's announcement had the hairs on his aching neck stand on end - and he fluttered - forced himself - into full consciousness. He ignored the radiating pains that riddled his limbs, and sat forward, flinching, to stare out the shattered windscreen and onto the street. Harley was right. There were people. Five of them - five of the False Facer fucks and their leader, lingered by his own car he'd totalled in ramming them off of the road. Black Mask and his men were mocking in their approach. All chuckling behind cheap, plastic disguises - all except for one, whose varnished mask was a work of art, a skull carved so smooth and skillfully, it was like staring down death itself.

With strength derived from shock and adrenaline, Joker was able to grab Harley and drag her crying from the crushed scrap of his car. Both of them stumbled from the wreck, battered and bruised. Harley steadied him, clinging tightly to his waist and holding him on two feet, clawing at the back of his jacket, frantic and frightened. "I'm scared -" her voice was tiny.

"Well, well, well, what'dya know?!" Sionis laughed, his voice rough as gravel. "We caught ourselves a clown and his cocotte! I'll have to charge Oswald extra for that."

This was bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad, **bad**. So, Black Mask too, was after the bounty Penguin had put out. And with being Black Mask, he hadn't wasted any time in chasing down the prince to claim his prize. Joker eyed up the competition, cautious. They were outnumbered - outgunned - and the False Facers descended on the couple, brandishing screwdrivers and bonesaws from leather jackets and puffer coats. Things were looking bleak. "A tad theatrical for you, Roman -" spoke Joker, laugh high, his throat tight, "but still, so wooden! Needs some work!"

"That's it Joker," Sionis drawled, "get your laughs in now, get 'em in before I get a hold of ya'..."

"Promises, promises!"

Harley squeaked as they stepped forward, sharp, rusted weapons extended and ready to strike. Joker clung to her with one arm, and withdrew his gun with the other, pointing in turn, at each colourful, cooky cold face to settle his aim on Sionis.

"Lucky fer you, Penguin's payin' more for ya' left **alive** \- said nothin' about the girl though -" he couldn't see Black Mask's expression, but could hear the sadistic smile stretch his features. "I'm sure he won't mind ya' comin' back with a few scratches, hm? Get 'em -"

Joker popped the trigger on the first to advance. Plastic caved with the bullet and shattered, blood, shards and brittle bone, teeth broke and littered where the body fell, head blown wide open. Harley screamed and fell back, she let go of him in the shock of his shot and stumbled into the arms of one of Roman's men. With his eyes on the men ahead, and unable to get a clean hit on Harley's attacker - Joker's gun jumped from mask to mask. Fuck! He couldn't risk it, the man whose hands roved over Harley - and she screamed madly in his hungry hold. But she tossed and turned away, grabbed her heel from her foot and swung with all her desperate might. It pierced through her captive's cheek, thrust into his mouth, and caught on the join of his lips, hanging. Ha! That's my girl!

In the chaos that ensued and distracted, Joker was able to shoot down two more of Black Mask's men, leaving only one other to tackle, and then on to Sionis himself. But as Black Mask advanced, a wrench tightly balled in his fist, he dived for Harley instead.

"You LIL' BITCH!" he hollered, furious.

Joker hadn't anticipated this move and held on his fire - watching, stomach writhing, as the skull-faced fuck tackled Harley to the ground, his arm raised high for a devastating, deadly blow. No! Joker stumbled forward, "don't -" heard a whipping at his ear - and the wrench flew from Sionis' hand to clatter at the curb. Joker laughed, loudly, hysterically, as he turned to face their saviour. Tall ears, hulking shadow, broad, black and brooding. "HA! HA! HA! **HA!** Batman!? Oh, am I **happy** to see you ."


	14. Chapter 14: Show on the road

Before she'd even had time to process the pain, or the panic, Harleen had been tackled to the curb and cast against the concrete. Stars speckled her vision and a shiny, slate skull danced through the white noise, staring down at her. Blue eyes were deeply set behind the mask, wild and wicked and Harleen understood, completely, her attackers intent even before witnessing the wrench in their white-knuckle grip. She'd seen it before, the first night at the warehouse spent in company of the Joker, with a blade to her throat. How he'd transfixed at the knife at her neck. How time had stood still. How she'd trade for that now. Harleen was sure to have seen this deathly, morbid mask on a Gotham's most wanted, but the name alluded her - her head pounded and throbbed, was it any wonder she'd forgotten?

From the stage, to circus, to freak show , this couldn't, **wouldn't** be the end of Harleen Quinzel and she struggled madly beneath the strange man's weight, squatting at her hips. She'd survived all this time alongside the Joker, she certainly wasn't going to succumb to him , whoever he was. She screamed, emptied her lungs with screeches, scratching at the varnished surface of his skull-face and splintering. Metal clanged at her ear - and her attacker was strangely, suddenly, weaponless.

"THA' FUCK?! "

He appeared just as shocked as she was, and instead, with a newfound fury, swung his empty fist. Harleen felt her nose crunch , a sickening pain erupted behind her throbbing eyes, blood poured from her nostrils, clogged at the back of the throat, knocking her back, head rutting roughly against the pavement. She cried, her hands splayed desperately in front of her, save he struck again. "D-don't-" Dizzy and disorientated, Harleen could hear a high laughter, the Joker, unable to determine if it were real or imaginary. Why was he laughing? Her heart sank to the lowest, deepest pit of her stomach, and writhed with an agony more severe than that of her swelling face. Tears streamed, stung and any strength she had left her.Please help me…

Her silent prayers were answered by a shadow that swiftly knocked death flying and flailing, freeing Harleen. Though her head thrummed and ears buzzed madly, she came to recognise the great hulking figure who had flown to her rescue. The Batman. Far greater and more terrifying than she'd ever imagined, eyes bright and glowing against a mass of solid darkness. He was as magnificent as he was threatening, built like a brick shithouse , he extended a gloved hand, speaking gruffly, "Harleen Quinzel?" He couldn't- this can't be - real. Harleen's arms were weak, ached and trembled as she reached out gingerly, struck, simply dumbfounded by the dark knight's imposing presence.

"Oh, no, no, no, NO , **NO**!"

The Joker flung himself around the Bat's neck, fingertips brushed but their hand's never met, Harleen's hero was pulled back by his nemesis in a scuffle of punches, scratches, a clawing maniacal mess. She scrabbled to the roadside, away from the ruckus, watched with horror as Batman turned on the clown, throwing hit after hit at an already wounded Joker. Blood littered the gravel, splattered his suit - all his own . But he kept advancing, each time more menacing, more aggressive and madder than the next, lunging and leering. And each time, was thrown, with such force, he had started to limp, wince and spit thick strands of blood from his teeth. "It's - ah - rude - to interrupt -" The Joker spluttered through a low, throaty laugh, clicking his tongue and waggling a finger. "Will you ever learn any manners? I'm beginning to think that you **won't**."

Harleen was stalled in her crawling away from the carnage, as her rummaging hand found the unconscious lump of her attacker, skull cracked up the middle to reveal a slither of olive skin beneath. She gasped, horrified, as her hand brushed his heaving chest. He breathed deeply against her palm and Harleen came to feel the cold, rattling of keys that peeked out from the inner pocket of his dinner jacket. Her mind whirled with the ridiculous - but real - notion of escape. Beyond the circling battle of black-and-white, Harleen spotted the car, the one that had rammed them off the road and into this predicament. It was busted but in far better condition than that of their own and snatching the keys, Harleen struggled to her feet.

The Batman thumped the Joker so hard that he hit the ground and arched up, fists clenched and groaning. Harleen pulled herself away, towards the car, shaking madly. She dropped the the keys, and cried quietly into her hand, heard the awful crunching, thudding, gargling, whining, angry sounds of their ferocious fist-fight. The Joker was relentless in his attack, though clearly suffering and the Batman did not once lessen the power and destruction of his blows. Just take him in! It's over! - she thought - he's down, stop hurting him! - but the Bat didn't seem, nor care to notice, how ravaged and ruined the Joker was. And the Joker would not. give. up.

Harleen gripped the keys and threw herself into the vehicle, ramming them into the ignition, blinded by tears. The car, despite its state, hummed into life and she crept off the curb, careful not to push it too quickly. She drove - couldn't believe she was driving - shaking so madly, her breath rattled in her chest. She was finally free! She was going back to her life, to the dream of her name up in lights, she was going to make it! She glanced at the rear view mirror, saw her eyes squinting through already purpling sockets, nose bloody and face smeared in it. She spotted their animated figures in the background, the Batman, and the Joker, still tearing at each other like rabid animals. Her heart felt as bruised and battered as the rest of her. And then another - another figure joining them, that awoke from it's slumber and swayed on two, shiny black feet, it's skull inky in the moonlight. Her attacker raised his gun from his belt and fired into the fray. Pop, pop, pop , **pop!**

* * *

Joker's limbs were fire, hot and hurt like hell, and he limped into each of Batman's loathing lunges, tossed around like a toy by the big, bad bat. "And - I thought - you - were losing your - to - touch -" he managed, though laughing scorched his lungs and left him breathless. But the sound of rapid gunfire gave him a brief moment to catch his breath, as the Bat and Joker broke apart, avoiding angry bullets that burst from Black Mask's handgun. "Someone's woke up on the wrong side of the sidewalk," Joker teased, his eyes narrowing at both enemies, a sudden stalemate as each man surveyed and studied the other. The high whining of an engine had them all break from their intense stares, as Harleen Quinzel was spotted, sat comfortably in the driver's seat, stirred up the gutter-stream and splashed the three of them in her escape.

"What?!" What the fuck?! His hands flew up and into his hair, stunned, shocked at the situation unfolding before his very eyes, as his captive stole the one last getaway vehicle and sped off into the night. " Seriously?! " Joker snapped, ignoring his unsavoury company. "Harley?!" and he turned to Batman - who he would eagerly blame for this - teeth gritted tight, "you scared her away!" Harley's emotions seemed to have got the better of her this time… He'd get her back - he'd have to. It hurt a little, and Joker swallowed bitterly, turning to face the men responsible for this momentous fuck-up . She was gone! She'd left him behind! He was done for! Shit!

"Ride or die, huh?" Sionis spoke, chuckling to himself, obviously, thoroughly bemused by Joker's predicament. "So, are ya' comin' wit me or the bat now ya little girlfriend's ran off ?" Black Mask's broad shoulders jolted with each deep, bold laugh. Oh, how hilarious…

"Shut it!" Joker hissed, his own grim and bloodied smile had vanished completely. Not that any of this was funny before, it really, really wasn't funny now. And from Black Mask to Batman, his mind was whirring with what to do. This situation, having been bleak to begin with, had gone rapidly from bad to the absolute worst . There was no way he was going back to Arkham again and there was no way he was going to let Black Mask hand him over to Penguin for a pretty penny. Yet, each option was appearing more and more likely for the clown prince. Just as he was getting back on track… Harley had left him. His chest burned .

"You're both coming with **me** ," Batman said, voice stern and serious as ever. Ha! And he took ahold of Joker's wrist so roughly Joker thought he'd snap his arm - unless it was already broken - a splintered pain rocketing up to his elbow. Well, at least the **stabbing agony** erased any sadnessthat had come creeping in his bones! He winced.

"Ow - ow - ow -oh- kay !" Joker raised his free hand in surrender, "Batsy, gentle , I'm not resisting!"

"Nah, but I am -" Black Mask raised his pistol to Batman's cowl, shaking his head. "N' I got things I been needin' to address with Joker here so -"

"You can continue your business behind bars," the Bat concluded. Witty .

Both Sionis and Joker groaned in unison, but Black Mask showed his displeasure with a BANG , firing a warning shot, clipping Batman's arm with the bullet, tearing the grey of his suit and grazing the skin beneath. Joker was thrown to the side, flinching as his knees cracked against the concrete, and Batman was upon Black Mask in an instant, fists hitting blow upon blow against the suited-and-booted. Joker didn't envy him, already struggling with aggravated wounds of his own, wobbling to his feet. "Naughty, naughty," Joker giggled from the sidelines, eyes glancing the street. He'd make a dash for it - but dashing anywhere at this point was out of the question, his body ached, just like Roman's was going to. He smiled at the slither of retribution delivered by none other than that of the Bat. Things stung a little less at that.

Roman was a flurry of slurs and spit, giving as good as he got. But Batman was overpowering, inhuman , in his attempts to reprehend him, and soon enough, Black Mask was just as much a spluttering state as the clown himself. It didn't take long. It never did. And Sionis was gasping through the cracks of his splintered, split mask, splayed on his back like a fish out of water, wriggling against the immense weight of the Bat pressing down on his struggling chest. Joker laughed, thankful for once that someone else was taking Batman's beat-down, and he clapped enthusiastically at their tiresome effort to take each other out. "My bet's on Batman!" he called loudly, hoping Roman still heard him through the humming in his skull, stepping slowly, cautiously from the scene.

Batman turned from his second victim, and back to his first, mouth a thin line at Joker's comment. Oops. The eared shadow stood from the sorry, limp body of Sionis, and stared at Joker's attempt at slipping away and out of sight. Joker smiled, hoping somehow , that would make his sneaking a little less insulting to the Bat - but Batman never wavered, and Joker swallowed at what he could only assume would come of him now. "I was just looking for a better view!" he said, in a hurried gush of words, high and laughing nervously, smile wide as he could muster despite the swelling of his face.

Batman pounced, clamped at Joker's throat and crushed, lifting him clean off the pavement so his feet dangled loosely. Joker's eyes burned, his throat felt as though he was swallowing hot coals, taking the smallest, sharpest breaths between Batman's relentless squeezing . He clawed, with little strength, at the Bat's fingers, legs twitching as he desperately sought for grounding. My, my was Bats pissed off today!

 **K**

An obnoxious car horn echoed down the street at them - and Batman released his grip, blinded by the fog lights bearing down towards them with no intent of stopping. Batman had to move quickly to swipe Sionis to the side before it crushed his legs in it's path, and Joker scrambled to the left before he splattered the bonnet. Tires screeched and engine whined as it turned, and a door flung open - a high voice yelling, "Mista' J, quick, jump in!"

"Harley! You little diamond, you precious little angel, you smart little -"

" Hurry! "

Joker laughed loudly, proudly , elated, despite the pain, despite his injuries, he felt weightless, wonderful! She'd come back for him. Harleen Quinzel, his Harley Quinn, had come back for him . He hopped into the car, a new lease of life taking over, and he laughed hysterically, so, sohappy. "I could just kiss you!"

"Save it," Harley said, slamming her foot to the floor, the car growling and shuddered beneath them.

Batman and Black Mask were scrapping for power, Batman desperate to reach the car, but torn between that and disarming his foe. Black Mask yelled, but Joker couldn't hear over the struggling engine, yet witnessed him wriggling free and raising his pistol one last time - eyes met with Joker's through the passenger window and he threw off his damaged mask to aim and pull the trigger. Glass shattered and littered Joker's lap, scratching at his face, the little shards stung. The window collapsed in on itself and he couldn't resist poking his head out of the vacant space, scoffing, "Ha! You missed !"

Harley's little voice distracted him from this joyous occasion, that he had to pull himself away from the extensive and aggravated assault Batman beat on Black Mask upon firing his gun.

"No, he didn't -" Though she continued to drive onward, the battered blonde in at the wheel was crying, face etched with concern at the blossoming orchid of blood that leaked through the starch white of her shirt. One hand was fumbling blindly at the wound, fingers wet with stark red. Joker's eyes grew wide at the instant realisation, of the bullet lodged inside of Harley Quinn. He couldn't hide the horror, of his smile turning to that of shock. Oh, no.

"It hurts!" she cried, her hand at the wheel shaking madly. "Am I gonna die, Mista' J?!"

Fuck! He didn't know - he didn't know! He'd seen men live for hours after deadly gunshot wounds, until fever took them in the quiet hours of night. He'd seen men function semi-normal, not even knowing they'd been fired at, to drop dead in a matter of minutes. Above her breast was bad- he knew that much. Jesus, I hope not! His heart beat wildly in his chest, fighting with his jacket to get it off as quickly as he could, to hold it at the sodden hole of entry. Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!

"I said I would kill you, remember?" he told her, snapping teeth in his very visible stress. "You ain't gonna die by no hand but mine."

"I remember," she said sniffling, smiling weakly through her tears.


	15. Chapter 15: Contemporary Theatre

_Bare bulbs buzzed and flickered, hot wires glowed against stark white skin. Her name, in lights, hovered above them, bold and brilliant, casting a spotlight down upon their silent waltz together. Hand in hand, they drew closer and closer, his breath at her neck and prickling. He pulled her into his arms and held onto her tightly, swoons and sighs left the audience though the auditorium was abandoned, derelict and torn asunder. A neon flashed and hummed, as his name too, hung swinging below her own, an illuminated squeaking scrawl that lit up the vibrancy of his green hair and his sharp, searching eyes, of what was a slinking silhouette of the Joker._

This theatre  
proudly presentin'  
 **HARLEY QUINN**  
and Mista' J

 _Their show. His and hers. Heat tickled Harleen's skin and rosied her glossy cheeks, as the Joker smiled down at her upon their stage, their dance. The warm glow of the lights softened his angular features and fuzzied the edges of all of his sharpness. He was handsome, and his hands were gentle with her own, his actions were calm and considerate, unlike the times he was maddened and manic, he was now so **very** careful with her, as though she might fall and shatter if he were to lead her too fervently. Fingers flitted her frame and the fitted curves of her costume. Harleen's skin was dewy, and her sequined dress sparkled with every dizzying twirl and turn. Delirious, she didn't - couldn't - remember this number from her production and stumbled, stepping on the Joker's shiny shoes unsure of her footing, she'd never been a dancer quite like Peyton Riley… The audience that was not there, muttered, giggled and laughed at her mishap, the familiar and unpleasant pang of humiliation set in. But the Joker too, chuckled at her clumsiness, against her ear and squeezing her waist lightly with the long palm of his hand - and suddenly, the embarrassment didn't hurt so much, in fact, it didn't hurt at all. The closer he was, beaming at her through the hot light, the more weightless she felt, and Harleen smiled too at her own mistake. Floating, she drew the Joker in, clutching at the shaven nape of his neck and leaning backward._

 _For once, for the very first time, Harleen didn't care about the invisible eyes upon her, the judging or the scrutiny, the whispers of a scandalised crowd. She didn't care about what they wanted to see from her, whether they loved her, or didn't. She didn't care about anything other than keeping that happy smile on the face of her dance partner, and she pulled up, chest to chest, to meet with his unwavering eyeline, her hands at his prominent cheeks and holding him steady. The Joker's expression altered to that of pleasant surprise, and her heart hammered in her ribcage at his heavy lids and open lips. She knew what was coming next - despite the lack of this scene in her script - and she accepted and anticipated it, a tingling thrill ran through her spine at the mere thought of their inevitable contact. Harleen's fingers trembled against his glistening, corpse-white face, and tiptoed to meet his mouth with hers, suddenly hungry and eager for him against her. But she stopped, barely an inch from the Joker, to see a thin line of blood leak from his nose, deep red that trickled down to the crimson cupid's bow of his lipstick._

 _"Oh?"_

 _To Harleen's dismay, the Joker dropped her, his touch left her hips to press a finger against the dribbling of blood, accidentally smearing it further across the brightness of his face. His smile dissipated, pulling back his hand to examine the red at his fingertips, confused, bewildered, a high brow twitched with concern. Gasps hissed from the non-existent crowd, and Harleen too, found she followed suit. Her breath faltered in her chest and it ached at the hitching. "Are you okay - are you hurt?" To her horror the Joker said nothing, not even a quip to offer her, he dropped to one knee, panting and gasping, head down and shoulders shuddering, blood began to drool from his rasping mouth and onto the varnished stage floor._

 _"Oh my god! Mista' J?! What's happenin'?!" Her heart was thumping so hard in her panic it was painful, and she swept the hair from his eyes, felt his clammy pallid forehead, turned to the empty theatre and cried, "can someone help us!? Please!" More droplets of red splattered, up from his lungs in a hacking cough and Harleen stifled a cry as it flicked up her shins and smudged against the gloss of her skin-coloured tights. "Oh, baby," she whispered quietly to him as he struggled, "it's gonna be okay - it's gonna be okay - I promise -"_

 _Screams erupted so sharp and so suddenly that Harleen was snapped from her care of the Joker and out to the proscenium, where a dark shape was moving through the shadows, between the rows and rows of seats, stepping forth, a huge and hulking, horned demon. No! Not now! She stood, shaking, despite herself, shielding the Joker from the glowing glare of the monster in their midst. "Can't you see he's injured?" she yelled out at it, voice echoing and echoing and echoing. "Don't come any closer!" Harleen stamped a heel against the woodwork, staring down at the ever-advancing Batman from the lip of the stage. "He's hurt - leave him alone -" her voice crackled at her demand, "please!"_

 _Batman didn't respond, and didn't halter either. He took to the set of stairs by the wings and continued his deliberate, steady walk towards them. Bulbs flickered and burst from behind them - his presence bought a suffocating, ebbing, darkness, he donned a cloak that billowed and rippled out, swallowing everything that the Bat passed, until only the stage and the spotlight was left, encircling Harleen and the Joker within. Trapped or protected, Harleen couldn't tell. "Don't hurt him!" she snapped, and moved as he did, to shield the Joker from his bright, beaming eyes, like two searchlights swooping a great, dark lake. "LEAVE US ALONE!"_

 _Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha **ha** aaaaah -_

 _Ha ha **haaa** ha ha HA HA HAHAHA HA **HAAAA** HA HA **HA !**_

 _The laughter gurgled up from behind her, and Harleen felt the Joker's grip on her legs, jerking with each hacking, angry, crazed laugh that filled the complete, absolute abyss surrounding them. "Don't mind him, Harls," she heard him gag on his own spittle, "Batsy's just jealous." She turned to help the Joker to his feet, saw the deep, dark stains of blood against the orange of his open shirt, the spit and blood that stringed from his mouth to his chin and his tie. He was a state, and her chest clamped at the sight of his battering. The Joker swayed on his feet, eyes hazy and grin wide, twisted and swollen. "Ain't that right old pal?"_

 _"What have you done to him?!"_

 _Batman said nothing, not to Harleen, and not even to the Joker, who continued to splutter and laugh at her shoulder and sagging. She squeaked under his weight, desperate to protect him from the waiting blackness. The Batman was patient and persistent, biding his time, he slipped in and out of the void and Harleen knew he wouldn't leave without the man in her arms. I won't let you take him. I won't._

 _"Did you miss me? Well, ain't that **sweet**." The Joker lunged from Harleen's support, taking darkness in his thrashing arms and hammering his fist against it's solid jaw, over and over, until one of it's glowing eyes sparked and fizzled out. He continued to rain down vicious punches, snarling and spitting at The Bat beneath him, laughing all the while through his sudden act of violence. "Miss me now?" he asked, again and again, until his fist was knuckle-bone against the teeth of his nemesis. "Do. you. miss. me. now?"_

 _Harleen backed away from the brutality, breathing deep and hard against her hand, held over her open and trembling mouth. Her lungs splintered with pains that shot up through her back and between her ribs. Her body shook wildly, her eyes wide, too terrified for tears. It wasn't the Joker that frightened her, nor his gnashing teeth or blazing anger - but the Batman below, who, no matter how hard he was hit, would not - and did not - go down. Please, just stop! She begged silently for it to end. And the Joker, despite his upper hand, was visibly, blatantly worse off. Blood still trickled from his nose, dribbled from the corner of his mouth, his breath was ragged, he was ruined and writhing and wincing - but he persevered through immense pain because he was single-mindedly rabid atop Batman._

 _He was hurt and she was **scared**. She wanted nothing but his gentleness back, the softness, a kiss. Batman bought out the worst in the Joker, a raging, animalistic anger that he didn't need to tempt him further. If the Batman was gone, he could be the Joker Harleen liked, the one that made her laugh, bought her gifts and danced with her nicely, and watched her like she was the only person on earth that he saw. "Stop -" She backed up against a mass and turned abruptly, swivelled on her feet and into the bold bat symbol abreast the big, bad, Bat. He towered above her, seemingly untouched by the Joker though she had seen the Joker strip his knuckles raw in his ferociousness._

 _The Bat extended a hand, his deep voice bounced in her head as much as it bounced the walls of the auditorium. "Harleen Quinzel?" He didn't take her hand. Not this time. Instead, plunged his knuckle deep into her chest, pain erupted, winding her, her mind soared, buzzed and hummed in momentary madness, he stole the air from her lungs, and the thoughts from her mind and Harleen watched, mouth agape as he pulled back, her beating heart sat upon his palm and fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. She felt as though every weight in her body had been lifted, that she was nothing - empty - a bottomless pit of grief and despair - nothingness. She dropped to her knees, eyes on her heart and crying, screaming into the creeping darkness she could not escape, and watched in agony, as the Batman held her heart and **crushed** it in his fist._

* * *

Joker watched with an unbreakable gaze, the beads of sweat that swelled and ran down the pale, unusually gaunt face of Harley Quinn. Restrained by his men, she tossed and turned in throes of silent and terrible agony, vastly smaller, skinnier and more feeble than he'd ever seen her. Her limbs were littered in bruises and cuts from their crash, and the wound in her chest was wide and spouting deep, dark blood that had Joker's heart thudding and his head pounding. He'd seen many a horror in his life, of which rarely ever, ever phased him - hell, more often than not it was funny , but this, this was something he found himself completely and utterly unprepared for - and could not deny nor hide the stress that had his fists clenching, his anger rising, and a terrible, terrible sadness bubbling just below the surface. If she was to die on that steel table tonight, that was going to be the same unfortunate fate for everyone else in that room, he'd already promised himself of that .

He felt sick in his fury. Of the failure he anticipated and feared. Harley had, despite all her misgivings, successfully driven them back to the warehouse after saving him , amidst all of her crying and panicking, she had done him so proud . He'd kept as much pressure on the wound that he could have done - his jacket was ruined (and very worryingly, soaked through) by the time they'd smashed through the garage doors, and Joker had screamed madly for assistance. But Joker hadn't been able to keep the control in his voice when trying to comfort her, and Harley had noted every heightened, strained pitch with alarm. She had pressed him with desperation questions of dying, and she had pleaded with him - don't let this be it . Was she going to die?! "You're **not** going to die." He forbid it. He absolutely forbid it. "I'm not done with you." She had shrunk at his snapping, and had screamed as they drew out the table, he'd held her jaw in his hand and told her firmly, angrily, determined. "You're **not** . You hear me?"

Joker knew that she couldn't hear him. Not anymore. Harley was out , her mind wandered someplace else , traversing the levels of her pain threshold without the grim reality attached to it. Thanks to a concoction she'd breathed deep into her lungs on the arrival of none other than Jonathan Crane, who'd forced a bag to her face and tubed an entire canister of gas into it. It had deflated quickly, with her rapid, frightened, raggedbreaths, her eyes had lost their glimmer and Harley was gone . She clearly still felt - as she continued to cry out and struggle against his men, but she was no longer coherent . It wasn't a comfort. But, Joker had dialled and demanded that the stupid, sorrowful, sack-wearing Scarecrow needed to come and save her skin, " or he'd lose his own" - and Crane, as always, submitted to Joker's desperate demands, sensing the serious endangerment on his life, did he not do as he was told. They'd always said he was smart . And shit! He was the only doctor Joker knew, the only doctor Joker knew that wouldn't attempt to section him - or euthanize him at this stage (since Scarecrow himself required either or .) Crane was the only viable option, and he'd arrived within the hour donning a burlap sack, a briefcase in tow. His methods were questionable but Joker had very few options left in his arsenal, and even less time. The risk was too great - "Save her !"

"May I quickly remind you, I'm a psychiatrist , not a surgeon -" Crane had said, blanching as his eyes fell upon Harley held at the table, rolling up the sleeves of his dirty plaid shirt, pulling surgical gloves right up to his skinny elbows.

"You quacks are all the same!" Joker felt his skin boiling. "Just fix her -"

"She needs a hospital."

Jonathan Crane had an infuriatingly pompous attitude ( always! ) and prodded at and into the wound with a spindly finger, his mouth a thin line as he scrutinised the set-up before him. Suspicious of Joker's henchmen forcibly holding each of her limbs atop a commercial kitchen table, Crane surveyed the situation as though he had all the time in the world. His knuckle reached Harley's skin and she rocked upward, screaming. Joker could feel rage thumping through his veins, his head close to splitting in two, he knew that Crane was feeling for the bullet, but he didn't like it. Not one bit. "Don't test me," Joker warned, a low and guttural growl that forced, with a choke, from his mouth. Other days, he would have revelled in the way Scarecrow looked at people, like rats ready for dissection, but not today, and not with his Harley. "She dies, you die," he spoke, with firm and total conviction. It was a promise, to all of them, but especially him, and he flicked a blade against Crane's thin and sinewy neck to solidify his statement. "No place for mistakes today Johnny ."

Scarecrow gave a lengthy sigh, as though the knife at his throat was a mere inconvenience, rather than acting as that of a threat. Joker guessed he'd done this too often with Crane, that this type of interaction was now simply predictable, expected, a common occurrence. Joker seethed, teeth gritted tight. Oh, how he hated him and his slimy, softly-softly disposition.

"This will require some concentration ," Scarecrow said simply, the same bloodied finger he'd stuck in Harley, he used to gently move the blade away. Crane's ghostly eyes didn't waver behind his ragged mask, and Joker tossed the knife aside, slamming his fist against the steel. Pain shot up to his shoulder, sharp and hot like lightning, his knuckles already having been stripped from his fight with Batman, he hissed through his teeth. "FUCK! " He felt Crane jolt as the table rattled.

"You've done this before right?" Joker flicked his wrist to be rid of the sting, and Crane flinched. Ha!

"On myself," Scarecrow replied cautiously, and Joker couldn't help but scoff viciously - " good! Did you ever remove one of mine!? " - at his answer. If Crane wasn't so desperately needed, he'd give him some other wounds to perform self-surgery on! But Harley whimpered and drew Joker from his deathly glower. She was sweating profusely, her blonde bob stuck slick to her jawline, her skin a sallow white and shining with sweat. Her breaths were small and shallow, her fingernails scraping and palms slipping on the metal surface beneath.

"Get it done." Joker drew from his pocket a wad of cash - one of the bundles he'd gained from the Penguin's safe - watched intently as Scarecrow's eyes grew wide at the offer he slapped on the table. Crane might've not been a man motivated by money, but chemicals and pharmaceuticals did not come free.

"She worth some value, is she?" Crane's frayed head tilted at Harley's writhing with curiosity, a cold curiosity a scientist would give a rodent growing extra limbs.

Though Joker couldn't see his face, he could hear the smile in Scarecrow's voice. That smug skin crawling, softly spoken sack of shit! His stomach tensed and twisted, and his hands twitched at his temples though they longed to be putting Crane to the concrete. Joker laughed in his discomfort. "I'm not paying you to speak , Doc , I'm paying you to fuckin' work."

Joker didn't trust doctors , psychiatrists were useless and he certainly did not enjoy the company of Doctor Crane, but all things considered, the latter was the lesser of evils, for him at least. Again, Crane sighed and took to his briefcase, Joker watched all the while, unblinking, eyes aching . The case was full of intricate implements, real surgical tools that albeit a little rusted at the handles (and a tad dull) were at least clean and well kept.

"Hope you've had your tetanus, Harls!" he joked, but his lips were down-turned, and he felt sick through his low laughter.

Crane may have not been a surgeon but he was certainly precise . As Scarecrow carefully undone the remaining buttons of her shirt, he didn't once touch her skin as though the even her heat radiating repulsed him. Joker knew Jonathan to be prude, but now?! The poor girl was drenched in her own blood, eyes rolling, contorting - hardly wining, dining and ready for fucking. Jesus . "Get a grip," Joker snapped and tore open the rest of her top, her buttons pop -pop- popping off and onto the floor.

It was bad . So bad that Joker, nor his men, could hide their grave expressions once the wound was fully revealed to them. The bullet had torn a wide hole that sat between Harley's armpit and the flat of her breast, the skin was messy , ragged edges and dribbling generous amounts of claret. There was no wider exit wound, he knew that , the bullet was wriggling around somewhere in Harley's tiny torso. Close to all the vital parts, her lungs, her spine, her heart . Joker's throat was tight. The sickness - the burning, unbearable anger - rose to the point that he turned away from her, from the scene, from Scarecrow, from all of it. He grabbed the box TV from it's stand and tossed it, kicked the chair and watched it clatter, grabbed the strands and strands of fairy lights she'd taken time to stick up, and tore them down with fervent fury. If she was going to **die** \- they'd be no need for her nonsense anyway! He'd liked the warehouse how it was! Hadn't he? Didn't he? Was she really going to die?

His henchman watched Joker's rampage in wise silence, Scarecrow upped the intake of Harley's gas and continued with his work, equally as quiet. Smart. Joker stood, shaking with a rage that burned beneath the skin, prickled at his neckline and ground his aching jaw. "Claus, you're with me. Get five guys, the van - now . I've got a sudden urge to clip the wings off a bird."


	16. Chapter 16: Reunion

The Cobblepot Manor was perched on the very outskirts of the city, it's shining front doors faced the great beyond, opposed to the ever-growing Gotham skyline. Angular architecture lined with golds, creams and glass, it was an art deco statement piece with high windows and higher ceilings, it's lavishness hidden partially behind layers and levels of scaffolding. It was, after all, still in the process of restoration. Oswald, having grown so successful in recent years, had publicly announced this expensive side-project months ago. A personal passion, Cobblepot sought to renovate and rejuvenate his family heritage, starting with the family home. The manor before had been left to ruin, but Oswald had pulled it from the brink of bulldozing, throwing riches at builders upon builders, historians and architects, to bring it back to it's former glory. And as much as Joker hated to admit, it had _worked_. The tall, sharp and grandiose building looked as though it had been dipped in time, brass beamed sunlight back at their squinting eyes, as they hopped from the back of the van, one by one, to gather outside the grand gates of the premises.

Thanks to slow, steady city traffic, it had taken Joker and his men an hour to reach the manor, having sat together in silence, they'd each endured an awkward, windowless and wordless drive. He couldn't have stayed at the warehouse, even if he wanted to. _He didn't want to._ Not with Harley writhing on the table, while Crane roughly fingered her chest. Not with her weak struggles and screaming. He'd have killed Crane if he had stayed, had him by his skinny neck, a knife up in his ribcage, over and over and gasping - If she were going to die, he didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to acknowledge it. _Not at all._ His hands had been tight and twisting fists in his lap for the journey. Nervous, hurting and _seething_ with rage. Cobblepot was going to pay dearly for whatever _losses_ Joker was expecting (and _dreading_ ). Black Mask, though having shot the bullet lodged close to Harley's heart, had been taken on by Batman, and beaten. Joker, instead, wanted to target _the source_ of his problem, the one who'd put a price on the clown prince himself. The Penguin. And though lacking the resources to target the man directly - would _TEAR DOWN_ his established order until he could _TEAR OUT_ his throat with his teeth instead!

Joker stepped from the van, last of the six, to join them by the entrance of Cobblepot's estate. Claus, having been the designated driver and recruiter for this spontaneous and unexpected mission, stood tall and imposing amongst the mismatched band of miscreants. There was Happy, named for his complete and utter lack of joy from life, a greying, handsome ex-mobster, who'd met Joker years prior to exact vengeance on his family, having been betrayed and shunted from ever getting his hands on their substantial fortune. He'd been with Joker and served him ever since. Then, Nick - a fresh faced little fucker, part-time thug, part-time pizza delivery guy, liked the money, but _loved_ the violence, was always unreliable, but relentless when in presence of his boss. Joker liked him _a lot,_ he had more guts and more gall than he could contain. Yanos, not so much, but he was at least loyal, a baby-faced ladies man, an excellent shot, and smooth as silk. Lastly, joining the party, was Frog, a wide-mouthed, ugly, heavy lidded loser, who sought to impress, no matter how seedy or unsavoury the subject. He had his uses. His use for today was to unload the van of all it's fuel cans, and drag them up the gravel path to Cobblepot's front door.

Too hot for work to commence, and still in construction, the site was empty. Joker and his unusual entourage were able to stroll through the creaking gates and right up to manor without any issue. There was a stride in Joker's step as they approached, eager to smash through the expensive stained-glass windows of the double-front doors. It was going to be _all too easy_. The thought of stripping Cobblepot of his most prized project had him sneering. It didn't even the odds but Joker hoped it could sooth some of the rampant fury he felt, making him twitchy, tight, wound like a spring on a rusted nail. He went to put a hand through the glass, but winced. They were painfully swollen, knuckles barely distinguishable amidst a mottling of grazes, blood and massive bruising. Claus appeared to recognise his boss's desire instantly and took out the windows as though fisting through paper. Joker smiled, genuinely, wide-eyed at his most impressive specimen, little pins of glass stuck (gone entirely unnoticed by the brute mute) in Claus's forearm and solid bicep. "Why, thank you, you _shouldn't have_!" Claus said nothing as always - and kicked the doors inward.

Joker couldn't hide his eagerness to get inside the Cobblepot's mansion, and on announcing "ladies first!" hopped into the hall, hands clapping ecstatically despite the pain this caused. The interior was just as carefully reconstructed as it's shell. There was scaffolding on the inside for painters to rework the original patterns on the walls, the carpets had been remade to reflect the era of it's birth, the decoration - though currently sparse, was blatantly bespoke. The amount of money Penguin must have poured into this, only added to Joker's delight at the thought of demolishing it. But with such beauty to behold, he thought - _absently_ \- of Harley Quinn. She'd _love_ this place, he knew. The golds, the glamour, reminded him of her stage, the first he'd seen of her, glimmering in the spotlight. The style, the sleekness, the elegance. He sighed and his anger ebbed in his chest. Joker would salvage something for her from all this - for when she woke up - if she would. _Wake up_.

Frog had finished bringing all the fuel cans into the lobby, skin glistened with sweat from his labour in the blazing heat of midafternoon. He drew a sleeve of his suit (no wonder he was melting!) across his forehead, and gleamed proudly. "S'all here, boss," he croaked - another reason for his nickname - his ridiculously harsh and broken voice.

Joker nodded, the small smile on his mouth twitching at the corners, " _good_."

There were specific ways in which to burn buildings. Fuel, obviously, was a necessity, to speed the process and ensure little to no complication of the fire taking. Then, where to start them. Since he had five men to help bring the building to the ground, he had to give enough time for them to leave with their skin, their _selves_ intact. So, no explosions. Not today. Electrical wires were a good start - would pull fire through plaster and paste, and spread evenly. Gas pipes, though the most efficient way of wiping things off the map, wouldn't give them enough time to escape before the blaze was unbearable and ready to _blow_. He wanted nothing but ash left for Penguin to pot up, and needed a fire big enough for this to be possible.

"Chimneys, soot, old wood, old wiring, blankets, curtains - find it, _soak it_ -" Joker grinned, "crack every window, let's _air_ this place _out_ …" His men smirked at his order, eyes flitting one another, they found enjoyment and excitement in Joker's weird work.

"Anythin' you say, J."

They spread out, splashing generous amounts of petrol onto freshly steamed carpets, over cushions, over bare wiring left for electricians. Wood was easy to reach and soak, thanks to workmen having stripped back the wallpaper to fix the rotting beams. The building, in the stages of its reinvention and improvement, had been left entirely vulnerable.

Joker laughed to himself as he took the stairs, eyes peeled for something to take back to Harley. He strode into each room, glancing shelves, mantles and sides for a gift. _A thank you_. A thank you for returning to his side and saving him from another long stint at Arkham Asylum. It still surprised him, the fact she'd sped back to his aid, and _hurt_ when he thought of what had become of her because of it. There were always risks attached to Joker's lifestyle, he understood, his goons understood, even the Batman understood that life was fragile, and death fickle, when the clown prince came knocking. It was unfortunate ( _very unfortunate_ ) for Harls, that she discovered that this way. He'd come to like her - had grown accustomed to her presence at the warehouse, at the club, in his car, with his guys, that it seemed a _terrible shame_ for that to go away. Everything did, in the end.

Cobblepot's bedroom was obvious upon reaching it. The boudoir was huge, carved in white wood, a cream canopy of glittering net reached each of its corners. A giant, snarling head of a polar bear hung high above the headboard. Everything was fur, or _bone_ , ivory, or skin. And the singular pole, central to the room, that gleamed from the ceiling to the floor - was certainly not in place with the rest of the household. Joker's nose crinkled. Whatever Penguin did in here, planned to do - Joker didn't want to know. _Fuck_ , who _would?_ He took to tearing out the drawers first, empty, _empty_ , empty. Then the cupboards, some drink, some trinkets, some condoms - then the wardrobe, a suit, a suit, a different suit, suit, suit, suit - _really?_ \- suit, suit, suit - Ah! He paused at a glittering gold dress, he'd almost missed swiping through the monotony of Oswald's clothing. It was slight enough for Harley, encrusted with sparkling white gems from the thin straps at the shoulder, to the hem at the ankles. He pulled it from the hanger to consider it further. He had _no_ idea…

"Good choice," spoke a voice that had Joker jolting, swivelling, gun pointing.

He sighed as he found Happy at the doorway, fuel can in hand, clearly ready and waiting to douse the master bedroom too. Joker stared blankly at him and his statement.

"Ha _ha_ **hah** , what does it matter?" Joker asked, but folded the dress under his arm none-the-less, "she'll be wearing it in her _coffin_." He scoffed, laughed louder, higher and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. "Let's get this show started, shall we?" and he moved to let Happy rinse the room with gasoline, giggling maniacally at the sloshing liquid set to burn and burn _and burn_.

Harleen woke with her head in a bucket, _heaving_. Her throat was fire, her ribcage sung with pain at each and every retching motion. Her skin was unbearably _hot_ , sweat and sick seemed to rise in waves from her body, and she spat up bile that burned up her insides. She groaned, cried, _whined_ , felt hands at her forehead pushing the slick blonde from her bleary eyes. She wasn't _dead_ \- but perhaps - this _was worse_. Was she dying? Was it going to be slow and painful as _this_? She cried, heavy, hard sobs that triggered another vicious wave of purging. Her body had nothing left to give, no tears - no vomit. She was _hollow_. Harleen remembered the shot, how she'd never feared anything quite as much as that wound at her chest, bubbling blood. She'd remembered the Joker, bloodied and bruised, his face had been a smeared mess of spit, lipstick, and deep, deep red. He had been _so hurt_ too - _was he okay?_ She took the hand at her head and held it in a trembling grip. Her palms slipped but it took hers in return, a firmer, solid hold.

"Steady - _steady_ -" said a voice she recognised - but it wasn't the Joker's, and her heart dipped so suddenly, she felt she might puke back up again.

It was Floyd. His red-nosed mask rested on his frizzy black hair like a hat, his amber eyes warm as she met with his gaze. The first she'd seen of him, he'd been dressed as a clown and tossing cold water up and into her face, now he roused her gently from the brink of death - so it _felt_. How completely and utterly _fucked_ had her life gotten? Just as it had finally, for the first time, been looking on the up. She had been near to famous and now she wasn't even sure she was going to _survive_. Harleen laughed, laughed through tears that barely inched passed the edges of her eyelids. "Oh my fuckin' _god_ -" she breathed, "I'm _alive_?"

Floyd, joined her in her laughter - breathing a lengthy sigh of relief. "Yeah, yeah, you are, thank _fuck_ that you are." His hands enveloped her own, and squeezed it tight. "You ain't the _slightest_ how fucked things would have gotten if - _shit_ -" He seemed as thankful as she was that she'd awoken. It was _flattering_ to think that they had cared? For whatever reason? As depraved as it was, it was undeniably satisfying. Real grief, for the real her. Harleen half-smiled, half-winced as she pulled herself away from the bucket to rest on her back, breathing shallow to save from the pangs in her lungs.

She'd been moved from the table-top and onto her mattress - only her mattress was now accompanied by a frame, and no longer sat on the cold, concrete floor. Taking a bullet for the Joker's sake seemed to have upped her bedding. The sheets had been cleaned, the mattress was _covered,_ the pillows were plush, and _new_. "Is he okay?" Harleen asked, despite herself - despite knowing how inappropriate - how ridiculous it was to feel such concern for her captor. But she couldn't help her curiosity. Was _desperate_ to know he was _alright_. They'd made it out together, she'd remembered the flitting fear in his features, something she'd never expected to see from the Joker. How he'd pressed his jacket at her bleeding and pleaded with his eyes at her. _Don't you go dying on me. I'm not finished with you. Don't think you can just waltz up and take the easy way out!_ He'd slapped her cheek with the back of his fingers. _Hey! Hey!_ _Listen - to -_ _ **ME**_ _!_ Her heart fluttered weakly at the quiet memory, still teetering in the aftermath of the drugs and adrenaline.

"The boss?" Floyd seemed pleased that she'd asked, and nodded. "Yeah, he's fine - _angry as fuck_ , but fine. Don't worry about him, he gets shot at all the time!" He waved his hand nonchalant. To them, this was _nothing_. A scratch! She supposed that to his lackeys, having the Joker turn up black-and-blue was simply a part of their usual routine. It had upset her to see Batman bludgeoning the Joker. She'd only ever heard of his daring, dangerous heroism, she hadn't once thought about that enacted in _real life_. It had been as far from the handsome-man-swoops-in-to-save-his-endangered-dame as she could have possibly imagined. And it had been the Joker she'd saved, despite everything. It had been _the right thing_ to do.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the darkening warehouse, spindly and crooked, it stepped out and into the light. For the briefest of moments she'd held her breath, hoping it was _him_ \- but instead, was met with a sack for a face and a creeping, dirty, thin, twitching of limbs. She screamed. Floyd leaped for his gun - sighed as he realised, and took a hold of her shoulder, whispering quietly. "It's alright, It's _alright!_ It's just Scarecrow -"

 _Just Scarecrow..._

"Just _Scarecrow_?!" she'd seen this awful face before, several years prior, followed by the proposal of evacuating the _entire city_. This face had threatened every single citizen, with a rasping voice across every network, every phone line, every radio station. That each and every one of them would **die** in the throes of true and terrible _fear_. He'd gassed East Gotham _completely_ that day, having hospitalised people in their hundreds. She'd been lucky - and had been at an audition elsewhere, the _nice part_ , where the rich went untouched and didn't even flinch for the poor. That she'd had to stay with a fellow auditionee that night, unable to return to her shoddy apartment. Hadn't been able to _admit_ where she lived, and had fucked him as though she liked him to save the embarrassment. Harleen had remembered the news, the papers, the fear that lingered _for weeks,_ even after the Batman had got him. "Ain't you that creepy _terrorist_ guy?!" Harleen didn't know why she'd asked. He was. Unmistakably.

"I removed the bullet from your body, that's all you really need to know," his voice was soft and southern, it didn't suit the visage that set before her. He placed a box on her bed and _said bullet_ rolled inside. "It was inches from your heart. It will take a while for you to heal fully."

Harleen looked down at the metal slug, the thick J scratched into its side was red with what could only be _her_ blood. The man in the skull mask had been so intent on getting to the Joker, she swelled with a little pride to know she had stopped them. Lil' ol' Harleen Quinzel had stopped the mob in their attempted murder. "I knew I'd be good for _somethin_ '!" she fisted the air, and _winced_ at the sting of the intravenous. _Ouch._

"Meat shields certainly have their uses," Scarecrow chuckled and she didn't like it, scowling. It wasn't like when the Joker jabbed. This was cold, callous and deliberately _cruel_.

"Hey! That's not what it was _like_!" It wasn't! _At all_! If they'd seen the Joker's face, they'd have known. It had been a mistake! An accident! And it had shocked him as much as it had her. She'd seen it in his eyes, the instant regret. The fright that had scared her too, more than the bleeding at her breast. How his smile had dropped and laughter had left him.

"I really _don't care_." And he didn't, it was made blatantly obvious that he _didn't_.

"Well you've saved a celebrity, how's that make ya' feel?" Harleen probed, despite the man's clear dismissal, and smiled with as much warmth as she could at him.

His eyes were void of humour, calculating, _vacant_ , as he looked her over, redressed her leaking wound with gauze, more gauze and duct tape. Scarecrow worked quickly enough that she didn't get a chance to see the damage - and cringed at the tenderness there. It was red and raised at the edges of the tape, and sore to his briefest of touches.

"I don't know who you are," he replied blandly, busying himself with checking the drip at her right.

 _Like he didn't know_. Harleen scoffed. "Don't ya' watch the _news_? I've been missin' fer _weeks_!" It was pitiful to admit, all that _hard work_ in attempt to fit in, failed audition after failed audition, mindlessly fucking into a final role that would elevate her to fame and - and all for nought, nada, _nothin'_. To get exposure simply for being stolen from her one true moment, and known instead as the unfortunate missing person the Joker had nabbed off the stage. She sighed. "Ain't you at least heard of the show?!"

Scarecrow stared at her incredulously, as though stupefied by her simple question. "Are you feeling any pain - perhaps I can give you more sedative?" Clearly that was the creepy man's way of saying _kindly, shut the fuck up_.

Laughter ensued, loud and echoing laughter - of _many_. That had Floyd stand, Scarecrow turn, and Harley jolt - _ouch_ \- in her bed. It took seconds for her to realise, amongst the cacophony, that the Joker had returned and was very, _very_ amused. As were his men, who howled alongside him, as they made their way into the building, a band of crazed individuals, covered head-to-toe in soot. The Joker was clutching at his sides, wielding an empty fuel can and stumbling in his struggle to stay afoot from all the cackling. His eyes watered, from smoke, or from laughter - she couldn't tell which. Harleen was desperate to leap up from her bed, and squeaked as the movement shot splintered pain through her limbs. She instead, smiled ear to ear. "You're back!"

Harleen's little voice cut the laughter dead, and the Joker immediately spotted her movement, and smiling from her cot they'd created for her. For a moment it seemed like he hadn't seen her at all, as though he didn't expect her, had forgotten he still held her hostage. There was a fleeting moment of shock that flashed on his sharp features, taken aback. That she was _alive_.

"Harley, _baby_!" He opened his arms as though announcing her presence, to his men, the warehouse, _the world_. Throwing a hand up and into his hair, he cracked a grin wider than she'd ever seen. Her heart hammered madly - though it ached, she felt weightless. She'd made it. _They'd made it._

"You had me goin' Harls -" he waggled a finger at her as he approached, "you really had me going there -" and he bent down to press the tiniest kiss to her forehead, so small that she didn't even feel it's contact. He smelt like dirty fire, a bonfire burning plastics. His eyes were piercingly bright against the black smeared all over his face. His sleeves were charred and rough at her cheeks. He smiled down at her, his gaze unbreakable, as though it was first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. "That's _my girl_!"

* * *

 **A/N** : Apologies that my updates on are so slow. The fanfiction is still in progress, I'll try to post more regularly on here if I can. Thanks for the eager comments and patience. Much love, L x


	17. Chapter 17: Breakfast at Tiffany's

Harleen didn't know how long she'd been asleep for, couldn't remember how many days it had been since the crash and the crude surgery. Harleen had woken in slithers from time to time, to voices and faces that had never been _his_ , only to drift back into the dreamless dark, in waves of exhaustion, fever and fragility. Despite some brief disorientation, Harleen came to, with clarity, propping herself up on her elbows and wiping bleary eyes with some ferocity. The most lucid she'd felt in what had seemed like forever, Harleen sought familiarity in the warehouse, found that she was wrapped in clean linen upon her bed, and could spot the same faces she had come to know, and even like, throughout her time as the Joker's hostage. From the foggy pink of the sky, the hazy beams from high windows, Harleen could only assume it was dawn. Things were quiet in the warehouse, and _still_ , save for a couple of the Joker's men lingering, smoking cigarettes, laughing and speaking in hushed voices amongst themselves. Armed to the teeth (and then some) they were clearly on guard duty, but busy instead with playing poker, as they had done with her the first night she'd met them. It bought a warmth to her weakened limbs and a smile to her sore face, that it didn't feel at all strange to have woken up to this setting. That the scene before her offered solace, something she wouldn't have had at hospital, or even at _home_. Having taken a bullet for the Joker, and having saved him from another beating off the Bat, Harleen had earned acceptance and a sense of belonging. All those years of yearning for her place among people, was this it presented to her now?

Was it _crazy_ to admit she felt more at home amongst the Joker's crates of dynamite and demented thugs, than she had ever felt amongst her fellow actors and Gotham's glamorous elite? She glanced the warehouse floor, in hopes of a glimpse of him. _Where was he?_ Pulling herself up and against plush pillows, Harleen's hand knocked a roughly wrapped parcel that had been positioned in her sleeping lap. In the same untidy scrawl that had been scribbled on the label for the jukebox, was written in sharpie over the crumpled brown paper, **Good show, J,** followed by a green heart with an arrow through its center. Harleen gathered the Joker had been pleased with her participation and opened the present eagerly. A gold and glittering dress fell onto her thighs, it's sequins and diamantes caught on the starchy linen of her bedsheets. It smelt of _soot_ \- and she recalled, the Joker having come to her, singed and smelling of _fire_. Some of it's seams had been burned black, but it simply added to it's charm. Harleen smiled to think of the Joker, manically parading through a blaze, her dress in hand. Who else would have given her a jukebox of show tunes she _loved_ , or a sparkling dress saved from deadly fire? The thoughtfulness was _more_ than flattering and Harleen's little heart fluttered. _How romantic._

Harleen flipped the covers, her legs mottled with the purples and greens of aged bruises, and wiggled her toes to the static of pins and needles that fizzed in her muscles and bones. She noted that the Joker's lackeys had removed her shirt and skirt, _who knew when_ , and dressed her in what she could only assume where the Joker's _down day_ clothes. Over her panties they'd pulled on a pair of his purple boxers, embroidered with gold J's all over. She giggled at the elaborate ridiculousness, as endearing and _stupid_ as they looked. _Who makes these?_ On top, they'd donned her a big baggy t-shirt, that she grinned ever wider at upon seeing the text across her chest. **I SURVIVED THE JOKER** in bold, black font. Just as she had told him she'd seen sold down by the subways. She squeaked.

Harleen went to hop from her cot, more eager than ever to find and thank Mistah' J for all of his gifts and thoughtfulness. Genuinely happy (and _excited_ ) to see him. She had so much to say - so thrilled that they had both survived, so antsy for what this spelt for them both, from here on out. Her feet touched the floor. But it wasn't the cold of concrete she had been expecting, had come to know from the warehouse floor. It was warm, warm, soft and _squishy_ \- and swore loudly as she stumbled over it's uneven surface.

"S-sorry!" Harleen stumbled all over the sleeping body at her feet, before realising fully what she was treading on and struggling to keep her balance. A mattress had been pushed beside her bed, covered by a sleeping bag, and wrapped tightly within was the Joker himself, waking unpleasantly, _suddenly_ , to being stepped on. _Repeatedly_.

" _Why_?" he croaked as Harleen accidentally crushed the air from his lungs, having hopped from his diaphragm to find solid ground.

"I'm sorry - I'm _sorry_!" It had been _hard_ for Harleen to walk, since she hadn't stood in a while, her legs were _weak_ , like jelly, and had trampled the Joker until she found her footing. He coughed and spluttered, moaning quietly as he sat, barely conscious he roused from the cocoon of his sleeping bag, blinking absently and clutching at his stomach. Her breath hitched, ankles buckled, and Harleen tumbled, arms out towards the man she'd suffered alongside, and had suffered so much _for_. Her knees met the mattress and she gathered him up, arms flung either side of his neck, she kissed him roughly, _once_ , on the cheek. "I'm _so_ sorry!" she announced loudly, grabbing at his shoulders and shaking him.

The Joker winced at her kiss, pulled back to watch her blankly. Her chest _hurt_ to see the two fading _black-and-blue_ eyes staring, a scabbed nick in his eyebrow, a thick strip of duct tape pressed over the bridge of his nose… He looked a sorry state, and in his sleepiness, even _soft_. There was a tiny, a **terrible** , slither of sadist joy Harleen hid behind a gentle smile, to _love_ the littering of war wounds the Joker was sporting. The love of his vulnerability, she doubted many - _if any_ \- often got to see. In some _twisted_ way, Harleen felt special. _Finally._

He wiggled free from her hold, flicked her arms from his shoulders but reciprocated her smile, still. "Could have just asked me to move, Harls," he scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair to flatten the silly quiffs that stuck out like horns from the back of his head.

She laughed, felt light, and _happy_ , wanted so much to _hug him_ , but knew he would evade her reach if she tried again. "Thank you," Harleen spoke gingerly, her own hands at her wrists and rubbing. "Fer lookin' after me, and for the dress. That was real sweet of ya'."

The Joker eyed her curiously, _confused_ , flitted the features of her face, calculating as he leaned forward, nose only _inches_ from her own. "I _owe_ _ **you**_ ," he said, voice a low growl and spoken with conviction. He was unwavering, _challenging_ , as though saving him had only proved to complicate their situation, whatever that was. It was clear, _concise_ , the Joker wasn't used to owing anyone _anything_ but Harleen Quinzel was his exception. She felt the hotness of his breath on her lips and he stole her own as he sucked in sharply. She couldn't tell whether it was _anger_ that he looked at her with. Or something else entirely. He extended a hand that hovered at her cheek, he pressed a thumb against the corner of her mouth, pressed up to prompt the curve of a half-smile. His fingers at her lips had her trembling. He smiled, widely, _forcefully_ and Harleen's heart hammered in it's cage against her ribs.

"I guess ya' do," she said quietly, unable to break away from his steely stare. Unable to pull away from his nail pressing against the softness of her small, bowed lips.

He _snorted_ , snapped his hand from the graze at her cheek, struggled from his sleeping bag and stood abruptly. She watched as he dragged a sleeve across his mouth, taking the last of the red from his lips and chin, left over make-up from the day before. As though she had kissed him then, and he was removing any mark of it… Harleen found she could breath again once he'd bought them some distance, and exhaled loudly, chest _aching_ from tenseness. His eyes had held that same tenacity as the first time he'd had her, sat in the chair and trembling at the end of his knife. But she'd been at the end of his fingers instead, and trembling still. Not from _fear_ though. Not this time.

"Hungry?" he asked loudly, and Harleen jumped at his brash barking. He pointed to the dress on the bed, jabbing. "Get ready. We're going for breakfast!"

* * *

Harley's face had dropped the moment they'd turned into the car park of the dusty run-down diner, and she'd looked down at her slightly charred dress, expression etched with distress at the realisation of their destination. " _Here?!_ " she asked incredulously, as though the mere suggestion was outlandish and _outrageous_. Joker frowned, in concentration, as he crawled the sports car, _carefully does it_ , into the last remaining space. He realised, fully, Harley would have most likely been expecting breakfast tea at some swank hotel uptown, and not some _dive_ of a diner fifteen minutes from their current location at the dockyard warehouses. But he liked this place, and needed, for now, to remain _lowkey_. Tiffany's diner - the local grease kitchen. The breakfast menu was good though - and he'd seen her munch her way through meals twice the size of her head, he was sure that Harley would appreciate the joint, once they were inside and ready to order.

"Dressed like _this_?!" she continued, and looked about ready to cry. _Oh, fuck no._

Joker turned to his dramatic acquaintance, and unblinking, asked, "why not?" From the glitter at her heels she'd worn on stage, to the dress he'd stolen from Penguin's manor, her hair a tangled mess from the week spent tossing and turning in bed, duct tape and bloodied gauze at her chest - she looked nothing less than _raw_ _and true_. It was an altogether improved look from the picture he'd first seen of her, fresh faced and false on the front of the news. He leant over her lap, to retrieve the gun from his glove compartment - and caught the glimpse of shock, _of excitement_ , that stalled the onset of tears and turned Harley Quinn _coy_ instead.

" _Ooh_ , do ya' think they do _pancakes_?"

It was six in the morning, and the diner was packed. Full of tired looking workmen, shovelling what they could of fattening frying-pan-breakfasts before long and laborious days in the factories by the docks. At first, no one noticed them enter. Joker in a shitty purple rain mac and swim shorts, and Harley in her (only slightly) singed ball gown and heels. People didn't look for what they couldn't predict, and the world kept spinning until the waitress waltzed over to give them a table. Joker could see the cogs turning, as the waitress took in their clothes and then glanced across at his face. Her smile fell, her shoulder's sagged, and her fat lower lip started to tremble with terror. Of the realisation of Joker in their midsts. Unmistakable, murderous, Gotham's _madman_. "A booth please!" he asked, with a toothy smile that had the waitress paling further. "We don't mind waiting, do we Harls?"

"Not at all, Mistah' J," came Harley's reply, head already buried in a menu she'd snatched from the stand. He _knew_ she would've liked it!

"A-absolutely, sir -" the waitress stammered, "right this way -"

Heads began to turn, at the _clop-clop-clop_ of him dragging his flip flops over the diner's wooden floor. Harley in tow, head still buried in the menu. Poor girl hadn't eaten solids for a week, he didn't blame her for her enthusiasm. Joker eyed the patrons as he passed, one by one. Each of them, upon spotting his face - even make-up-less - had them gasping and turning back to their meals. Those that did notice, hurried to pay, but there were others too caught in discussion or stacks of pancakes, to realise the clown prince's presence therein.

They sat, and Harley finally dropped the menu to beam at him sweetly. "I can't pick! I want one of _everythin_ ' they got -" she whispered, giggling, as though the thought was simply too _scandalous_ to air aloud.

Joker grinned, and turned to the waitress, purring his request as she shook, horrified above her writing pad, "you heard the girl, _one of everything_ it'll be then!" And he flashed the gun in his lap to point at the woman's wavy thighs. "You let me and the lady dine in peace, I won't have to _ruin your day_ , how about that?" He caught Harley's expression, wide-eyed with thrill at his words.

"Of course! Of course!" The waitress was tougher than she looked, and nodded frantically at Joker's threat, _understood_ , eyes darting back and forth from his face to the gun. "Comin' right up!" She rushed to jot down their half-assed order, stumbled as she swivelled, sped over to her till and out of sight.

Joker smiled, pleased with the progress so far, and turned his attention back to Harley instead, who was _people watching,_ quietly and content. She must have felt his eyes upon her, as she too pulled away from the bustle of the restaurant to meet with his eyeline. He threw his glock on the table and leaned back into the cheap, pink leather of the booth, stretching his long and lank limbs, he felt himself relax.

"Are ya' hungry? _I'm starvin_ '. Their breakfast menu's _so big_ \- I can't wait to try it. Have ya' been here before? I can't wait to try the milkshakes! They do strawberry, banana, toffee, vanilla, raspberry, chocolate, even -"

"Harley." He wasn't used to much idle chatter. Sure, he had guys who wouldn't _shut up_ , but more often than not he spent his personal time _alone_. It wasn't that he didn't have men to talk at, or people to engage with when he _chose to,_ but Joker despite his entourage, despite his loyal lackeys, spent a great deal of time mulling _on his own_. If anyone was talking, it was usually _him_. Harley went quiet at the mere mention of her given name, and Joker smiled. She really was a sweet little thing to look at, sitting innocently opposite, all curious in the eyes, and tender at the mouth. The bruises on her face had almost healed, all that was left were faded purple rings above her cheekbones, barely visible through the blushing of her cheeks. And the gauze at her chest, that was bloodied but better, with each and every change of dressing, she was recovering well. Harley had made it through the _worst of it_ , and the only way for her now, was _up_.

Joker had hung by her side the whole week-and-a-half she'd been unconscious. As much as he had wanted to go for the Penguin, again _and again_ , striking whatever property he could get his hands on, Joker _hadn't_. The manor had burned, burned up like a beacon. He and his men had watched on the news from her bedside, toasting to each and every failed attempt at firefighters dousing the blaze. He'd been successful in erasing the Penguin's household heritage, and nothing had been left to recover. Harleen had slept through, at peace, though he'd done it for her - and had _hoped_ , for a man who never hoped, that she would come back from this. He had, at times, lashed out at his men while she slept. Had punched Nick so hard he'd knocked out three of his back teeth. Had argued and bitched at Happy while cleaning his gun, Joker had been sure he was contemplating aiming and firing, so he'd pushed and _he'd pushed_ until Happy shot through a window and stormed from the warehouse. _If only she knew what she'd done to him._

Harley spinned the barrel of his gun, aimlessly, flicking it with a chipped gold fingernail, over and over. Her cheeks grew redder still as her tummy grumbled, and she giggled with embarrassment at her obvious hunger. _How long had he been staring at her?_ "They're taking their _sweet time_ ," he spoke, suspicious of his lack of waitress and leaning over the end of their booth to seek her out again.

"They _are_ makin' everythin' on the menu Mistah' J, that's gonna take _some time_ -" came Harley's little voice of reason.

But she was hungry. _She'd suffered enough_. "Hello?" Joker's voice was high and strained as he beckoned their scared waitress back over to their booth by the window. "How long is this going to take?" he asked, "I'm a very _busy man_." Fingers twitching at his ringed fingers, finding it difficult to stifle the anger and impatience that _burned_ just beneath the surface of his smile.

"You're in the line, sir," the waitress spoke, voice dipping and raising, legs twitching. "The restaurant is _very busy_ also, I can speak to the -"

Joker reached for his gun and fired five shots, in quick succession, at the diner ceiling. Plaster fell like snow onto his and Harley's table, she both squealed _and_ clapped at the show. Shocked but not remotely _appalled_. Instead, she seemed to enjoy it. Immediately, the seats began to empty, in one hurried, manic rush towards the door. The bell above the entrance _ring-a-ding-a-ring'd_ for five minutes, until only Joker, Harley and the waitress were left front-of-house. Harley was still clapping, but stopped when she came to realise the awkward stillness.

"Oh." She coughed into her fist.

"Now _how long_?" Joker growled, grin wide and smug, he couldn't resist asking again.


	18. Chapter 18: Very Important Persons

Despite the chaos that ensued both in the diner and the kitchen, after Joker had unloaded bullet after bullet into the ceiling, he'd left the restaurant - and left the waitress with the widest smile stretched from ear to ear. This was unusual for the clown prince, though his name spoke otherwise, often leaving premises to the cacophony of cries and screaming as opposed to winning grins all round. What he found funny wasn't often received with good humour by anybody else . What helped in this circumstance, had been Harley Quinn, who having stuffed stacks and stacks of pancakes until satisfied, had demanded he leave a tip for the lady who'd served them, and for the chefs who'd prepared their mountainous feast, the bus boys, the porter…

"Anyone else ?!" he hissed, emptying the loose change and lint from the shallow pockets of his shorts.

Harley stared, crossed her arms, pursed her lips. The same expression he'd seen at the club when harmlessly proposing she'd help them to fix things up. What had he done now? Standing, sighing, and pulling out the inner lining of his pockets, he rinsed himself of his last remaining twenty dollar bills. He saw $80 just sitting there . The only cash he had thought to carry. "Happy now?"

She glowered and whispered to him harshly from her spot at the table. "You shot up their roof!"

"You're killin' me, Harls," he huffed, all eyes on him as Harley signalled not-so-subtly for more. How minted did she think he was?! He hadn't intended on paying! Her silence spoke volumes. "Fine!" Joker pulled from his rain mac a tattered cheque book (more of a prop than anything) he reserved it's use for those SUPER SERIOUS business meetings. Ha! Ha! **Ha!** And he was using it now to pay for their service. "I got a tip for you, Harley-" he started.

"Just cough it up." She wasn't taking the joke.

Joker snatched the pen from the waitress waiting patiently with her pad, and scribbled the one, followed quickly by three fat zeros. Finally, Harley smiled, and relief set in. Good grief. Now fed, full and having had her ( ridiculous ) demands met, Harley seemed in good enough spirits to latch onto his arm as they left the diner. Joker tensed instinctively at her touch. If anyone had hold of him, it was often followed by several blows and a severe beating, her light link at his forearm was a foreign feeling, a gentle gesture, and Harley tugged him towards the direction of his porsche sitting in the lot. Joker smiled as she led him back to his car, smiled at her sweet expression, the littered freckles on her face bought out in the morning sun, and smiling mostly, his last laugh, knowing full well the cheque he'd left behind would certainly bounce.

"That was good . You should take me out again sometime!" Harley exclaimed excitedly. The fresh air and food had done wonders for her already. The pink was rising in her cheeks, some of the plumpness had returned to her rounded features. She still needed time, but recovery looked fruitful. Harley turned to face him as they reached the passenger door, and she hung on for his answer, head tilted and smiling warmly, still. "What d'ya say?" She stood on one foot, then the other, eyebrow raised expectantly. "I got some good places we could go. Some chef's I wouldn't mind ya' shootin'" she spoke coyly.

Joker's mouth slacked at the suggestion of them sharing company. Not that he was opposed, in fact, quite the contrary. "A couple of pancakes and you're good to go, huh?" he chuckled. "You are too easy ." His laughter faltered as her expression altered. What had been glee was now grumpy andglaring at him.

"What're yer tryin' to say?!"

Joker blinked, blankly. Why was she so difficult?! "To please - easy to please !" It didn't matter. The damage was done. Harley hopped into her seat and slammed the door before he could even begin to rectify his statement. Fuck. Joker wound a hand through his hair and breathed deeply through his building frustration. Breathe in. Breathe out. Miss Quinzel had proved time and time again to be something of a handful. He considered scolding her, watched her as she rummaged through his glove compartment for a lighter, her fingers brushed the purple plastic of his personalised taser - well, maybe he'd confront her another time instead! A tinny text tone bleated from the inner pocket of his mac, distracting Joker momentarily from thoughts of telling off his hot-headed harlequin.

 **sent at 6:30am**

 **club u comin?**

 **sent at 7:15am**

 **come soon #badnews**

 **sent at 7:30am**

 **?**

 **sent at 7:38am**

 **u know it wouldn't hurt to answer 4 once**

Floyd. Joker frowned at the phone screen. They'd dealt with their fair share of bad news the last few weeks, he wasn't really in the mood to stomach anymore of it… He still winced when dressing, it still stung to squint his eyes. Reluctantly, dragging his feet, Joker followed suit and took his seat at the wheel. Harley waited for him to turn the ignition, to wind down the window and start up a smoke. Silence ensued between them, both steaming for reasons neither wished to discuss. The morning had started so swimmingly…

"We gotta quickly swing by the club."

Harley's arms crossed again, eyes never leaving the view from her window. A plume of smoke left her lips, swallowing back her sadness, her anger, it was hard to tell which. "Oh, goodie ."

They didn't speak for the rest of the journey. Harley smoked and clutched the covered wound at her chest, Joker jittered in the uncomfortable quiet. He wasn't used to voicing his care or concern, so the words he wanted to speak never left his lips. But he knew, with writhing discomfort, he genuinely cared for Harley. He'd tried to ignore it, when the bullet had been wriggling in her torso, when he'd thought she might die, he tried just as much to ignore it now. But Joker kept glancing her way nonetheless, wanting so desperately to crack a joke and distract her. Pull her from whatever depressing and downing thoughts she was dwelling on. Harley was irritating, irrational but she was just as much interesting and individual. He hadn't lost her on the operating table, he didn't want to lose her to disagreements instead. "Sweetness, I -"

"What's goin' on?"

Harley flicked her third and final cigarette out of the window, leaning on the sill and staring wide-eyed as they approached the broken exterior of Grin N' Bare It. The carpark was uncharacteristically full, all of his men must have rallied therein. Happy stood at the backdoor, a shotgun rested on a cocked hip. The club was no longer a misused husk, but acting as a true base of Joker operations. Though it bought a thrill to witness the return of its former glory, of the budding potential, there was a twinge of suspicion as to why he'd been summoned. Harley had seen the club near on empty, unguarded, a goon hang-out, he could hear her breath hitch to see it like this .

"Business calls."

She'd become accustomed to his guys with guns at the warehouse, she'd even witnessed murder, with Eric taking a shot straight to the face on her attempted escape - but she hadn't seen his men armed and ready for turf war, wandering his property in broad daylight. The reality of his work had her nervous. Joker stepped from his vehicle and Harley followed hesitantly behind. She gripped his arm for an altogether different reason now, but Joker would take whatever he could get. "No one here is gonna hurt you, kid." He meant it. Not one of his men would dare lay a finger on her now, not after seeing her locked in his arms, not after seeing her laid out screaming on that table. "They're just looking out for us. They're completely harmless!" Joker's voice was soft, for once. Not if they wanted to keep their heads .

Harley clearly struggled with deciding on what to make of his statement, eyeing their weapons and chewing her lip. "Completely harmless," she repeated. Still, Harley settled on a small and quivering smile at his words. "Oh-kay Mistah' J. I believe ya." She didn't , but it was sweet enough to say, regardless.

Together, they headed inside, Harley bumping at his hip and holding onto his sleeve tightly. They weaved around the men who had gathered, some he knew and recognised, some stranger faces also drifted through their midsts. As expected, his ranks would rise throughout the coming weeks, recruited or invited by other henchmen, they would crawl out from the rotten woodwork of the Gotham's underbelly, to pick and work for a side before the oncoming storm. Gang war in Gotham spelt serious dollar for most, so lackeys were easy to come by, gun fodder or not. Burning Cobblepot's family manor had started the motion towards warfare in the streets of the city and they were standing on the precipice of times a-changing .

Pool tables had been drawn together, glasses, dusty bottles, cards and coins, had been placed to use as strategic symbols upon the scuffed green felt. Wayne Tower represented by a dusty bottle of pink champagne. A bowl of moulding peanuts stood in for Gotham City Police Department. Among other various items. Joker's closer circle of miscreants, save for Happy, lingered , lacking any of their usual light-heartedness or laughter. Yanos, the ladies man, sat near on sobbing in the leather booth, a black letter in hand and shaking. He sniffed as his eyes lifted from the table to Joker and Harley who stood at the doorway.

Floyd, in his clown attire, approached from the bar, phone in hand and huffing. "I was just about to text you again."

"No need," Joker stated, eyeing each and every miserable face moping in the club. "Man walks into a bar-"

"Cobblepot's men cornered Yanos at the Iceberg Lounge, he's got somethin' he wants ya' to have."

Joker's grin dropped at being cut from his joke, "that's not the punchline…" The mere mention of the name that had gotten him beaten black and blue, had him confronting both Black Mask and Batman, and had put Harley in a drug-induced coma while a bullet intended for him, engraved withhis initial, had buried itself beside her beating heart. " What? " The word came as a cold and quiet whisper, that even Harley stepped aside.

Yanos' dark eyes wavered in their sockets as Joker approached, and he advanced without ever feeling his own footsteps on the hardwood floor. He felt hot under the plastic of his rain mac, and growing hotter still. He eyed the black paper in Yanos' trembling hands. Tears teetered on the thick row of dark lashes, his handsome stubbled jaw was set tight . Yanos was beautiful, but he was also naturally, fucking stupid . Shocker.

"What you got there?" Joker queried.

Yanos offered up the paper, shaking, into Joker's splayed palm. "I never said shit," he blurted. "I wouldn't, I'd never -" he spluttered in his panic. "I go there all the time, I pick up girl's there all the time , I ain't ever had problems, boss, but they got me in the peephole and they fuckin' pressed me man, pressed me to give you this."

The light glinted off an embossed silver Joker, and he flipped to see, what no doubt everyone else in the room already had . In silver pen, an elaborate cursive, read:

Dearest Joker,

I sincerely apologise for, what can only be surmised as, a grave misunderstanding. You have taken something which I considered incredibly dear to me, of that you know. To prevent any further misunderstandings of this expensive and extensive nature, I would like to call a truce. Man to man. I am willing to accept losses, if I can be assured of profit in future endeavours. I am, after all, nothing but a businessman working to better **our** beloved Gotham City. I wish to invite you, personally, to my yearly charity event held in honour of the hard work of those at Arkham Asylum (of that I am sure you have personally benefitted from in the past). I would like to extend to you, my guest of honour, a VIP entry, where we can discuss business matters further, face to face.

Find it in your heart to give generously to this important and integral cause.

Kindest Regards,

Oswald Cobblepot

He scanned in silence, for minutes. A terrible rage bubbled just beneath the surface of his sallow, clammy skin. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, glaring down at the eloquent invite. From the politeness of the letter, Joker knew he'd poked a nerve others dared not. That the invitation was anything but a truce .

"That's the third place I've been barred from now, 'cause of you," Yanos' brows were furrowed, sweat beaded at his neat, dark hairline. "Where am I supposed to take the ladies now!? You even got me banned on tinder!" His voice shook with every syllable. "They gave me the invite - told me to get the fuck out, if I ever go back, they'll fuckin' gut me boss."

Joker eyed his resident playboy darkly. "Well, we can't be rude can we? Not after such effort! What would they take me for?" He leaned into Yanos, angered at his stupidity - his complete and utter naivety to have been spotted at the Lounge and recognised. He wanted to gut him himself. "Of course we are going to go!"

"They'll kill me!"

"Tragic!" Joker laughed, a loud short bark that had his men shrinking into the shadows.

"A' invitation?" Harley's high and curious tone piped up and Joker's attention was snapped away from his paling pal squirming in his booth. The intenseness of his gaze had her startled, and she shuffled in the corner. "To what?" Harley scuttled over before he could answer, ignoring how he seethed, her wide and eager eyes perused the letter in his hand. "Can I see?"

Joker scoffed. "Sure thing, doll." He smiled at Yanos widely, and revelled in him recoiling. Haa.

Harley frowned, but didn't chastise him - clearly far too intent on nosing in his business instead. Joker watched her expression as she scanned the page, darting to and fro, there was a hunger in her eyes as she devoured the words. She grinned, clutched the letter to her chest, and squealed so suddenly it had Joker and his entourage jolting. A glass shattered at the bar, followed by a croaky " fuck " from Frog, who grumbled when pouring himself another gin as replacement.

Joker's hand twitched as his heart hammered, pointed a finger at Harley and snarling, "you need to stop-"

"This is so excitin '!" Harley squeaked. "Invited to the one n' only! One of Cobblepot's charity galas? They're the place to be! I've tried to get in before but all the real important people get invited! All the rich an' famous ! The guest list is A list only !" She gleamed in the neon light. Paused and considered. "How tha' hell did you get an invite?"

Joker gaped, finger still pointed aimlessly. "What's that supposed to mean?!" Point taken , he'd never been invited before - he didn't really want to admit that destroying a man's heritage had made him guest of honour, that his invite served as nothing but a trap for he and his henchmen.

"Can I go too? Please Mistah' J ?!"

"Out of the question." Did she really think they were going to sip drinks and make idle chatter with Gotham's most boring bunch of pompous pricks?! Is that really what she thought this meeting was about? Harley's glowing smile vanished, her brows bowed in sadness. That's exactly what she thought… "Look, Harls - I'll make it up to you!"

"He don't even wanna go!" She screwed the invite in her fist and tossed it at Yanos' forehead. "But you're gonna take him instead? The only time I'm ever gonna get to see one o' these things - thanks to **you** \- and you're not gonna take me with ya'?!" He could hear the hysterical pitch in her voice, of the oncoming tears and theatrics. "You're real cruel ya' know that, you're a real piece-a' work !"

"Don't throw that at me!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Yelling, thumping - feet stamping. Harley's voice was chalk on a blackboard, Yanos' tenor was a thunder in the distance. Others joined in the ruckus and gathered at the booth like rabid hounds. Glasses rattled, chairs scraped and screeched as they moved to swarm the situation.

"Don't talk t' Miss Quinzel like that!"

"She's a lady, show some respect would ya'?!"

"Shut the hell up, th' lotta ya' I came here for a quiet night away from my fuckin' wife, I don't need this shit today."

Joker stared at the crumbled paper on the table, could just about make out the silver lines of Oswald Cobblepot . His wrists ached, fists clenched so tight his nails cut little crescents into the flat of his palm. The hit Penguin had put out on him… The debacle with Black Mask, The Bat… The bullet… The sheer insult and audacity of his letter-writing pen-pushing invite to Joker. Attend my yearly shitshow - " a truce" - a fucking trap . He turned to grip the edges of the pool table, save he got hold of the fingers on Yanos' hand. Then he would have real trouble getting the girls, right?

"Can we all just try an' be civil for f ive-fuckin' minutes man?" Floyd's voice was strained over the deafening drum of angry noise . Over the shouts and screeching. Over Harley's wailing, screaming , stamping her heels and marking the freshly varnished woodwork.

Joker flipped. Both his mood, and the pool table, turned in one fluid, flurry of violent fury. Wayne Tower was down, shattered and fizzing. The glasses, coins, cards and trinkets, all cascaded with a mighty **H** onto the floor. Shocked silence ensued, while Joker panted by the upturned pool table. It had been far heavier than it looked. Christ! "If it means so much, you can fucking go. We'll all go." He'd need them all there, to get through the torturous event avoiding any real torture. As many men as Penguin would warrant entry to.

"I don't wanna -"

" **WE'LL. ALL. GO**!"

Yanos backed so far into his booth, his head bashed against the brickwork. "Alright, alright! Whatever you want, boss!"

"Really?!" Harley sniffed, eyes glistening. "Ya' mean it?"

Joker shook from his outburst of anger, from the strain of the table. Muscles ached against tired bones, cracking his neck to relieve some of thetension .

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou." Harley hopped over broken glass and spilt liquor, to throw herself into his unexpecting arms. He swayed, almost fell, caught himself - and her - before they tumbled into the shards at their feet. He steadied, and held her, sighing. Harley's face was buried, her excitable squeals muffled by his clothes (thank fuck ). Though he still shook in his rage, it ebbed at her touch. At the feel of her hands gripping the back of his mac, of her tense and quivering body, feet tapping on the spot where they stood. Shebuzzed .

Pulling away, Harley looked up at him, hopeful. A small and encroaching smile enhanced her gentle features. "Do ya' think we could go back to my place?" She chewed on her nail with uncertainty. "I'm gonna be in serious need of supplies if I wanna look good fer this thing. My roots are almostfour inches long , 'n I miss my make-up, my moisturiser, my bath bombs, y'know what I mean Mistah' J?"

Oh, sure he knew what she meant. Moisturizer? Make-up? He knew that it was a bad idea . Like attending the gala was a bad idea . Bath bombs? Not quite the bomb he'd been thinking of. Or the crates stacked full of dynamite stored back at the warehouse. Those could come into real good use at the Iceberg Lounge… Harley's eyes were imploring, it tugged at his chest, dulled the ache of his anger. "Why ever not, pumpkin?" He grinned, despite the want to resist her. There was no humour in his tone as he spoke. Nothing good could come of taking Harley back to her home, as harmless as her suggestion was. But with Penguin's wrath waiting patiently for him on the horizon, why not indeed. "We'll head out tonight."

* * *

Harleen was thrilled , humming and singing along to the quiet thrum of the radio, headed to her apartment in East Gotham, she hadn't seen or stepped foot in for weeks since her capture. All that drama felt dated now, compared to what she anticipated, and was just too excited for. It was difficult to think of much of anything else. That's right. You heard it here first, folks! Harleen Quinzel was going to be attending one of the finest, most talked about, most glamorous events of the year! Cobblepot's charity galas were a must-attend extravaganza, for all the most loved and desired Gotham City had to offer. Even their most wanted! And Li'l old Harleen was going to be among them. She'd dreamed of such occasions. She'd always thought, once she'd made it **big** , the doors to all the real parties and celebrations, award shows and ceremonies, would have opened to her. That fame would have granted her access. Where she'd always wanted, and willed, to be. Instead, it so happened to be The Joker's infamy, that had her invited to such a swank event. Funny, right, how things turn out?

The Joker didn't talk much on the journey to her apartment, save for the occasional query about their direction, fingers drumming on the hard leather of the wheel, he would swallow hard and suck his teeth. She could sense his tenseness , see the tightness in his jaw as he drove, how he concentrated far too seriously on the road ahead. Something had him bothered, but he'd agreed to take her back to her apartment regardless. And he'd driven her in silence all the way from Grin n' Bare It to the shoddy block upon block of cheap housing she lived at - had lived at. The recognisable, littered streets, the graffiti highlighted like modern at, an urban gallery, by the neon glow of the local motels signage. Harleen smiled. As shitty as it was, it had been hers . As embarrassed as she had been about the place before, she sure did miss it. Those small, home comforts only your own bed, your own home, can possibly provide. How long had it been? She didn't even know.

It was surreal, heading the flights of stairs to her own front door, followed by a skulking, sulking killer, Gotham's most wanted criminal, crime lord , the clown prince of crime. He seemed taller, his sharp silhouette only exaggerated, his angular face amplified, by the glowing light and the dark, deep shadows of the old and dated building. He was a devil at the banister, creeping up from behind. The sound of children through the crumbling plastered walls, of TVs blaring, of people arguing, the shapes of couples kissing through cheap, thin curtains - Harleen was conscious of The Joker's breathing at her neck.

If they were noticed…

Police presence had never been uncommon in her block, and Harleen urged onward at a quicker pace at the mere thought of it. Even if the cops weren't patrolling, there were so many people stacked up like sardines, all it would take was one or two witnesses. And she couldn't be seen with him. Walking willingly by his side as she did? It was all kinds of wrong and she knew it. When had she stopped resisting the Joker? Had the days, the weeks, maybe months , already addled her moral compass? Harleen glanced back at the clown and he stared right back at her. Had he been staring the whole way up?

"Isn't there an elevator?!" The Joker huffed, eyes narrow as their gazes met. She offered him a small, fleeting simper - something about his sour attitude, how he clung to his anger like a scorned child, was nothing short of endearing.

"No need, my door's there-" she pointed a chipped nail (she'd need to collect her polish too) to the third door on their left. It was stripped of all but slithers of pastel pink paint. The rusted brass One and Five, hung limply into the old and splitting wood. The flowers at her sill had died - that wasn't down to her absence, they'd been dead long before the Joker has stolen her away. The Joker stood upon her scuffed home's where the heart is welcome mat, and watched her unblinking as she sifted through the stones in one of her flower pots, retrieving her hidden set of house keys. "Tadaa! " She jingled them proudly before heading inside.

It was exactly as she'd left it, save for police tape that strew the walls, the corridor, the doorways. So they'd been back to check her apartment for clues. How exciting! Whoever had rifled through her things hadn't stripped or torn at any of her belongings. Her collection of books still sat at the coffee table collecting dust, Italian Bachelor, Redeeming the Rogue Knight and At The Ruthless Billionaire's Command to name a few of the titles she'd fawned, swooned and squealed over, the many nights spent alone on the sofa. She squeaked and slapped at the Joker's hand, as he rummaged through the romance novels, sneering.

"Get yer stinkin' hands off those, ya' perv!"

His thin fingers brushed at his chest, all too gentlemanly. Mocking. "They're yours , not mine. Ha ha haa ."

Clothes littered the floor, outfits tried on and discarded in a rush before night's out on the town. An old pizza box - empty - sat on the table, an open - empty - tub of ice cream beside it. It was untidy, lived in , as though she'd only just stepped in and out for all of a second. Yet, it had been so much longer than that. So much longer than she wanted to dwell on. How she'd led her sad and lonely life, had been left in this dusty stillness. Harleen sniffed, it was the dust that was irritating her eyes, had them wet with tears… She hurried on through to her bedroom before the Joker could notice her spill.

Harleen grabbed for her suitcase, opened it wide on her bed stripped of bed sheets, throwing whatever was closest, whatever she wanted , into the bag. Her bedroom was the smallest in the apartment, the darkest, and quietest. It fit a wardrobe, a dressing table, and enough for a single bed, stocked full of trinkets, memoirs, mess . Plushies watched from the headboard, rested upon her thin, discoloured pillows, as she tore through her belongings, tossing makeup, bleach kits and brushes into her 'to take' pile. Cheap jewellery hung from every corner, every curve. She collected as much as she could .

Fingers foraging through her drawers for her nice panties (reserved only for those special occasions ) she brushed upon a discarded photo of Mom and Dad, smiling back at her through a smoky polaroid. Harleen sighed, sat back on her haunches and stared at their faces, feeling strangely foreign to the people she most loved - and missed . But she'd been distancing herself for a long time . Long before the Joker had stepped into her life, she'd been responsible for her loneliness. Too intent on chasing a dream, Harleen had left a lot of what she loved behind. Friends, family. Because they just didn't get her . No one did. Not her friends with their husbands, settled partners, mortgages and children. Not her curly-haired, busybody mother, not her balding matter-of-fact dad. She hadn't wanted to hear how she " needed to get a real job ," how she was " too old to be taking these kinds of career risks ," how she just needed to " find yourself a nice man and settle down before it's too late to give me my grandkids, Harleen. " She loved them, she did. But she'd just wanted to wait - just wait that little longer , until she'd made it to show them, show Mom and Dad just how proud they could be of her. Harleen had been ready to make the call - to tell them how well her show had gone, how she'd send them tickets, to bring all their friends - their daughter was a star! But the moment had been and gone, and Harleen was instead a missing person, missing people she'd long left to ambition.

Mom would be worried sick, Harleen knew that much. But would so love the scandal, something to discuss with the nosy neighbours, through tears and tissues at the dining room table. Dad would be smoking too many cigars and tending to their tiny garden. She placed the picture back in her drawer where it belonged. "See ya' soon," she muttered into the calm. Maybe there was still a way to get back in the game. The Joker was famous, wasn't he?

"Get a load of this, Harls -" Joker stumbled through the little doorway, book in hand and grinning like a Cheshire cat, eyes watery from dry and breathless laughter. " She stared longingly into his cerulean orbs, how she so desperately wanted his thick lips on hers. His chest pressed down on her bountiful, bouncing breasts. Ha, ha , **ha** . He drove his gargantuan- "

"PUT IT DOWN !" Harleen knocked the book from his open palm, horrified , blushing, mortified. The Joker's high, scratchy curdling voice was not intended to narrate that kind of content! Her cheeks burned, wanting to slap the stupid grin from his **stupid** face. He'd cheered up, at least. At least there was that.

"Those aren't for you ," she scolded, gathering up the novel and shoving it into her chest of drawers hastily.

"I don't know -" he eyed her room, " gargantuan ?" The Joker carried on smiling as he paced the sleight walk-space of her bedroom. He stepped through the litter, eyeing her shelves, her bedside table, clearly on the look-out for something . She cringed at the state of her home, but he didn't seem to notice. Perhaps he just didn't care .

"What do ya' want?"

"Speaking of gargantuan…" The Joker lifted his Joker plush from her dressing table, the one she'd won at the carnival, and kept ever since, "you're right, the head is far too big."

The Joker holding soft-stitched Joker, standing awkwardly in her bedroom, surveying his own merchandise with a curiousness, an expression of pride - smugness , was as weird as it was strangely wonderful. Despite herself, Harleen smiled, shaking her head. "Told ya'. But now I got ya' together, I kinda see the likeness..."

He pressed the plush up to his cheek for comparison, eyes closed and grinning in Harleen's direction.

"Kinda cute, but mostly creepy Mistah' J."


End file.
